


second chances (hurt the most)

by fungdi



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bittersweet Ending, Catharsis, Dream Smp, Everyone who's alive at the start of the fic gets a happy ending I promise, Except c!Dream he can suffer, Family Feels, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Phil brings Wilbur back, Rated For Violence, Self-Harm, Sleepy Bois Inc as Family, Suicidal Thoughts, Wilbur Soot Needs a Hug, Wilbur Soot is Not Okay, Worldbuilding, and he stays dead sorry, major character death is tagged for phil but it doesn't happen on-screen, phil is dead, takes place immediately after the Dec. 16th stream, that's it that's the fic, what if you needed to sacrifice a life to resurrect a player?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:27:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28470858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fungdi/pseuds/fungdi
Summary: (A father would do anything for their son.)Wilbur was dead. Philza killed him, and that was the end of it. So why- why is he alive, right now? And where is Phil?Or: Wilbur comes back to life and suffers the consequences.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Wilbur Soot, Floris | Fundy & Wilbur Soot, Niki | Nihachu & Wilbur Soot, Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo & Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 118
Kudos: 364





	1. ashes of the martyr

**Author's Note:**

> Aight, here we go- welcome to the product of months of DSMP brainrot and too much free time! I couldn't resist.
> 
> Also, even though this story will be focused on healing, Wilbur doesn't start in a good place, and it takes him a while to work through all of that, so read with care. 
> 
> (Warnings for this chapter: suicidal thoughts, a minor panic attack)
> 
> I hope you enjoy! <3

Ghostbur wakes up alone. The floorboards are cold and hard beneath his back, and his shoulder aches from his awkward sprawl. 

He’s not in pain anymore. 

Ghostbur knows he needs to get up. L’Manberg’s going to start building a new set of houses, and Ghostbur wants to help. He’s very good at building things. 

(When there’s a project in front of him, he can ignore the fuzziness in his head, the burning in his chest- the way no one in New L’Manberg can meet his eyes anymore-)

He needs to get up.

Ghostbur opens his eyes, and he frowns. Why were they closed? Ghosts don’t need to sleep, and- and-

His head is fuzzy. 

He pushes aside that thought, sitting up instead. He can’t shake the thought that something is wrong. 

He wrinkles his nose at the odd smell in the air. It reminds him a little bit of his sewer- of the old wood and brewing stands, the mustiness of potions.

Ghostbur’s fingers trace over the floorboards, catching on the grain. It feels nice. He glances town to look at the patterns, and his hands aren’t grey anymore. 

“Oh!” He gasps, pulling them off of the ground and bringing them closer to his face. The faded grey has been replaced by a healthy peach, and his hands seem much more solid than they used to be. He stares at the backs of his hands, then flips them around and stares at the palms. 

There’s blood on his fingertips, and he frowns, rubbing at it. He looks around. There’s more blood on the floorboards, pooling further away in a corner. Small pools seem to glitter in the light, and he tilts his head at it. That’s- that’s a lot of blood. And redstone. Was there an accident? Ghostbur tilts his head at it. Was there a fight? He doesn’t like it when his friends fight. 

Whoever got hurt, he hopes they’re okay now. And if they’re sad, Ghostbur can bring them some blue! 

Ghostbur turns to his satchel, rummaging through it. He counts every item in his head as he digs. His shovel, his axe, twelve trapdoors, a lead, some daisies, and- aha!

He holds the blue up triumphantly. It’s still pale, and it doesn’t darken when Ghostbur holds it.  _ Today must be a good day, then _ , he decides. 

His sleeves slip down his forearms, and he frowns, because he never likes the look of his old lives- the grey gems are all cracked, horribly dull, and-

One of the gems is red. 

One of the-

Slowly, Ghostbur looks away. The blood on his fingers is still warm. Who- what-

“Hello?” he calls out, voice cracking. “Hello!”

No answer. 

He looks down at his forearm to admire the warm red glow- he’s missed it, so much. It pulses faintly to the beat of his own heart. He has a  _ heartbeat _ again! 

Now that he’s looking at it, it looks a little different than the other lives he’s seen before- there are smaller black gems encrusted over the top. He’s only seen hearts like this on one person before.

Phil.

He traces the gem in his forearm, fingers pressing against the new life. How did- what-

The blood on the floor. The traces of redstone. The acrid smell of potions in the air. His new heartbeat.

(An old book, holding the terrible answer to resurrection-)

Phil, he- Phil-  _ DAD- _

Wilbur hunches over on himself, and  _ screams. _

* * *

_ Wilbur leaves for the SMP with his father’s well-wishes and an off-world communicator. _

_ “Feel free to call me if you need anything,” Phil says. “Even if it’s silly, alright? I’m not whitelisted, but a familiar voice does wonders for the soul.” _

_ “Sure, Phil.” _

_ He ends up building a nation. Perhaps his old worlds have rubbed off on him. He gathers people to his side, and- _

_ A dark room, rows of chests, a button. A sword to the gut that kills him, but hurts less than the knife in his back. Eret was supposed to be with them! _

_ “It was never meant to be-” _

_ He watches as his younger brother all but hands a life over to Dream, breath stuck in his throat. He forces himself to count out the paces anyways, watching as- _

_ Wilbur loses the election. Even though they agreed coalition governments were legal, frustration burns- _

_ “MY FIRST DECREE-!” _

_ They run. An arrow rips into his shoulder, and he stumbles, falls- _

_ What now?  _

_ What now? _

_ “You’ve seen me build a nation, I’ll fucking do it again!” _

_ Schlatt took everything from him. How dare he- _

_ His communicator pings. This world might be protected, but Wilbur has ways around that. He’d do anything to have that weapon on his side, even if he doesn’t trust the person that comes with it. Technoblade was always a loose cannon- _

_ He sees the lies in their eyes, too afraid to speak up. They’re not on his side, they never were- _

_ A festival, an explosion. Raised voices. The rebellion is falling apart around him, but it’s so refreshing to see everyone’s true colors- _

_ New faces, new voices (new traitors), but Tommy insists- _

_ Glass bottles, a surrender. “Tommy, I want you to put the arrow right between his eyes.” I want to see the fucker dead- I want you to kill him- _

_ Everyone’s happy, everyone’s cheering, forgetting their own dark hearts. Wilbur wants to scream, to tear it all apart again, but not yet.  _

_ There’s two traitors in their midst, and Wilbur’s made a deal with chaos- _

_ The button is too fucking familiar- he’s been here too many times, only to be pulled away at the last second- _

_ “What are you doing.” _

_ He presses the button anyways. _

He’s screaming, sobbing, clawing blindly at the gem in his arm- he doesn’t  _ want _ it, he doesn’t  _ deserve it- _

Phil killed him, and that was supposed to be the end of it- he was so, so tired-

The gem doesn’t budge, and he digs harder, breaking the skin and scratching bloody lines, because- because- 

* * *

When Wilbur finally comes back to himself, the first thing he does is wrap Phil’s life with bandages. He doesn’t want to  _ see _ , he doesn’t want to  _ remember what Phil did- _

The irony almost makes him choke. For all of Ghostbur’s foolishness, maybe he had one thing right. (It hurts so much to remember.)

The first question in his mind is why. The second question is how. 

As always, the best place for those answers is Technoblade.

* * *

The snow crunches beneath his boots, and his breath fogs in the air. The novelty of feeling cold again almost covers his irritation at the weather. His hand rests on the pommel of Phil’s sword- the same sword that was once buried in his chest. 

The blood-  _ Phil’s blood _ \- has long since dried, half-frozen to his coat and shirt and pants. He looks like a murderer. He smiles to himself. It’s not too far from the truth, now, is it?

His goals have changed during the long walk over. Wilbur doesn’t give a damn about why Philza brought him back- it was a mistake. (One that had to be corrected as soon as possible.) Technoblade, with his bloodlust, and love, and grief, would be more than enough to set things right.

The cold has made his fingers numb. He’s shaking, shoulders hunched against the bitter wind, only focused on putting one foot in front of the other. This feels like L’Manberg all over again- the adrenaline, the numbness, the certainty that  _ this _ will be enough to end it. 

He’s not afraid to die again.

It’s not long before he spots the cabin. It’s oddly quaint for a war criminal. 

He walks closer, steeling himself. Techno’s not an idiot. He’ll know exactly what happened. A bitter part of his mind whispers,  _ good _ .

Wilbur sees movement in the windows as he climbs the stairs. Well. At least someone’s home. He takes a breath to steady himself, and pushes the doors open. 

“Ghostbur,” Techno starts, still bent over a brewing stand. “I thought you were supposed to be… in… L’Manberg?”

Wilbur meets Technoblade’s horrified gaze. “I’m not Ghostbur anymore, I’m afraid.”

Techno drops the potion in his hand, the pale pink of regeneration seeping into the floorboards. They both ignore the glass. His mouth opens, closes. Wilbur raises one hand in a mocking wave.

Technoblade rushes at him, and Wilbur has a moment to suck in a breath before a body comes crashing into his own. 

“Wilbur- I- oh, god.” Techno takes a moment to hug him, breathing shakily. “You’re alive.  _ You’re alive. _ ”

Wilbur steps back, Techno letting him go. “Phil’s dead,” he says lightly. “I killed him.”

There’s almost a visible change in the air. Technoblade goes rigid, axe already equipped. He hasn’t moved yet, though. 

Wilbur digs deeper. “He brought me back- and I told you, once, that I refused to let anyone have that secret. I woke up, and I took his sword, and I killed him. Just like he killed me! Isn’t it fitting-”

Technoblade swings the axe, and Wilbur can’t help his triumphant smile. It thuds into the wall beside his head, and he stares up at his older brother in all but name.

Techno grabs Wilbur’s coat, yanking him close. “Why are you here, then?” he demands. “ _ Why are you here?! _ ”

“I figured you’d want to know.” Wilbur lets his hand drop to Phil’s sword, knowing Techno would catch the movement. 

Technoblade slams him into the wall, and Wilbur gasps, hand falling away. Techno’s head is bowed, but his knuckles are white and his arms are trembling. 

“You- you killed Phil.”

“I did.”

“Just to keep your  _ damn _ secret? You-”

Wilbur brings a foot up and kicks Techno in the chest, hurling him across the room. He’s on his feet in a matter of seconds, but Wilbur has already drawn Phil’s sword. Techno’s axe is still in the wall, but Wilbur isn’t wearing armor, and the axe isn’t Techno’s only weapon. 

Instead of his usual sword, Technoblade pulls out a pickaxe, and Wilbur can’t help but laugh. 

“Come on, then!”

Techno swings first, because of course he does, and Wilbur brings up Phil’s sword to block. The pickaxe grates against the blade, one side slipping towards his hands, and Wilbur twists the sword, disengaging.

As Techno stumbles back, Wilbur steps forward, slashing at his chestplate. A line of pain sears itself into Wilbur’s chest instead, and he hisses. Damn  _ Thorns _ -

Technoblade kicks at the inside of Wilbur’s knee, and he drops. Before he can blink, he’s on the floor, one of Techno’s boots grinding into his wrist and pickaxe beneath his chin. Techno presses down, making him hiss and let go of Phil’s sword. 

He didn’t even last half a minute. Wilbur sighs, looking up to where-  _ oh _ .

Technoblade, messenger of the Blood God, is crying. 

Wilbur tilts his head back, baring his throat. “Go on, then,” he says. “‘Catharsis’, and all that.” 

A pickaxe would hurt, Wilbur mused. Especially at such a strange angle. It would be quick, though, especially if Techno managed to drive it deep enough to reach his brain. He stared up at Technoblade, still looking as if the world had caved in beneath his feet.

“Well?” (Do it.)

“Did you think I didn’t know, Wilbur?”

“What?” Wilbur blinked. 

“Did you think that Phil would leave without sayin’ goodbye?” A single tear falls off of Techno’s face, landing on the wood next to him.

“Techno-”

“And now you show up here, beggin’ for death- how  _ dare you _ .” Techno digs the point of his pickaxe into Wilbur’s neck. “Phil  _ killed himself _ to give you that life, and you immediately decide to  _ throw it away?! _ ”

Wilbur freezes. 

“Listen to me, Wilbur. You make your own choices, that’s fine. But don’t you  _ dare  _ disrespect his dying wish.” Techno removes the pickaxe. “You go and live a long life, and die old and happy, because that’s what Phil wanted. Am I clear?”

“Yes,” Wilbur rasps out. His voice is hoarse.

“Good.”

“Tech-nooooo!” Small feet thud on the stairs outside. “My boots broke! Do you have an extra pair?”

Wilbur and Techno have a second to stare at each other in horror, and then Tommy bursts into the room.

Tommy freezes. His eyes dart from Techno, to Wilbur, to Techno, to the axe in the wall, and back to Wilbur. He always comes back to Wilbur. 

“I- I-” Tommy drops the broken pair of boots. “Wilbur?”

Tommy staggers backwards, catching himself on the doorframe. His eyes begin to water. 

“No- he’s- he’s not-” 

Techno gets off of Wilbur. “Tommy,” he starts.

Tommy runs. 

The door slams shut behind him and swings back open, showing nothing but an empty expanse of snow and a blue sky. 

“Tommy!” Technoblade calls. “Tommy!” 

Wilbur watches as Techno glances between him and the doorway. 

“Stay here,” Techno grits out, before  _ he’s _ gone, too. Wilbur can hear his voice echoing across the tundra as he runs after Tommy. The door is still open, wafting cold air across the floor. 

_ “You make your own choices, and that’s fine.”  _

Wilbur lies on the floor and takes a moment to breathe. 

“His dying wish…” Wilbur whispers, voice cracking. His eyes start to water again. “Damn it!”

_ “Phil killed himself to give you that life.” _

Wilbur chokes out a sob, dropping his head back onto the floorboards. The life in his arm seems to weigh his whole body down. 

(Why would Philza throw it away?)

* * *

With Tommy and Techno out of the house, Wilbur has a lot of time to think. He stays on the floor where Techno threw him, staring up at the ceiling.

(The door stays open, and he ignores the way he shivers at the cold.)

Wilbur idly traces the grain of Techno’s floorboards, letting himself figure out what to do next. Techno was right- he can’t die. He can’t throw away Phil’s life like that. But, maybe-

_ Maybe he can return it _ .

Wilbur sits bolt upright. He feels energized, feels  _ alive _ for the first time since he woke up. His hands are shaking from the cold, and he jams them into the pockets of his coat. 

This will work. It has to. 

Wilbur walks to the door, cold fingers wrapping around the frame. He looks back inside Techno’s house, warm and inviting, before turning away. He leaves, and makes sure to shut the door behind him.

He needs to speak to Dream.


	2. catharsis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur goes to speak with Dream. It goes... poorly.

Wilbur looks over New L’Manberg, eyes tracing his nation with a new light. Tubbo’s done a good job in his time as President- Wilbur half-remembers drifting through the crater, helping him rebuild. 

It’s… strange to be back here. Stranger, still, to not feel the familiar anger clawing at the back of his throat. 

Bitterness, yes. But Wilbur doesn’t have time for anger.

Wilbur takes a breath to steady himself. He doesn’t see Dream anywhere- and that’s the problem, isn’t it?

You don’t find Dream. Dream finds you. 

Wilbur steps out of the trees, keeping his back straight and his chin up. He might as well make it easy for him, then. 

L’Manberg is oddly quiet, and as Wilbur stalks around the perimeter, he can’t help but wonder why. No one is on the streets, and the only sounds are the faint rippling of the flags, and someone sobbing. Hm. 

His boots click on the spruce pathways as he walks closer. Whoever’s crying has calmed, somewhat- Wilbur can hear them trying to take deep, stuttering breaths. 

(Has something happened? His memories are- foggy. Indistinct. He remembers Technoblade, unarmed and bound. A jagged scar cutting across Quackity’s mouth, and the rage in his eyes. A blue sheep? A flash of golden light-)

(He shakes the thoughts away, determined to ignore them.)

A figure is huddled in the shadows between buildings, hands gripping their hair. As Wilbur approaches, they glance up, and flinch so violently they almost fall over. 

“No, don’t- I-” Tubbo lets out a disbelieving laugh. He starts laughing so hard he almost begins to sob again, and Wilbur stands there and watches. 

“I rea- really have gone mad, haven’t I?”

Wilbur hums. “That’s not my place to say, I’m afraid. Have you seen Dream?”

“ _ Dream can go fuck himself. _ ” The vehemence in Tubbo’s tone is a surprise. He curls up further, bringing his knees to his chest. His knuckles go white. Tubbo’s breath hitches, but his eyes shine with hatred.

Wilbur steps closer. Something’s definitely happened. 

“I- I thought- I didn’t want another war, Wilbur- I couldn’t-” Tubbo takes a deep breath. “I  _ had  _ to exile him, I couldn’t let my feelings get in the way, but- but-”

“Tommy’s dead! He’s dead and I  _ sent him off to die _ !”

Wilbur watches as Tubbo starts crying again. He kneels down next to the boy, ignoring his flinch. It’s strange to see Tubbo like this. Even after the festival, after Tubbo respawned with a fresh set of scars and a hollowness in his eyes, he stayed quiet. Steadfast. 

(“I forgive you, Technoblade-”)

“I’m- I’m not like Schlatt, am I?”

Wilbur thinks about it. He drags up his hazy memories from when he was a ghost, considering them. 

(Tubbo, dirt beneath his nails as he helps Niki plant a new row of flowers. Tubbo, asleep at his desk, ink smudged on his cheek. Tubbo, face twisted in anguish as he begs Tommy to  _ listen _ -)

“No,” he says at last. “You’re- you’re more like me, if I’m honest.” Wilbur laughs. “You care. You care so goddamn much it feels like it’s tearing you apart.”

Wilbur leans back next to the boy. He lifts a blood-crusted hand, reaching towards the new flag. A bitter smile cuts across his face. 

“Schlatt was-”

(Sparkling eyes, a joke no one else knew, a vindictive smile- playing tricks at the world’s expense-)

(A madman, a tyrant, an enemy-)

Wilbur’s hand closes into a fist. “The only thing that the bastard cared about was having the last laugh.”

Tubbo scrubs at his face, wiping his tears. “I wish,” he starts, voice raw. “I wish that I ran away with Tommy. Before the rebellion.”

A flicker of movement catches Wilbur’s eyes, and he turns to study it. “Running from your problems only works for so long,” he murmurs, half-focused on the conversation. “If you don’t want them to catch up, destroy them on your own terms.”

Tubbo looks at him, a strange light in his eyes. “Or blow them up.”

“That works too, yes.” Wilbur gives him a crooked smile. 

He catches a flash of green at the outskirts of the city, and turns. It seems Dream’s found him, then. He gets to his feet, looking down at Tubbo. 

In another life, Wilbur would have liked to get to know him better. “We’ve always been our own worst enemies- don’t stay in your head too long.”

And with that, Wilbur turns, leaving the President behind. 

\--

For the first time in Wilbur’s life, he can see Dream taken by surprise. Not on his face, no- his mask is firmly in place, like it always is. It’s in the line of his shoulders, the stance he takes, the way his right hand curls like it wants to hold a weapon. 

Wilbur grins. He’s always been a showman. “Hello, Dream,” he says, spreading his arms wide. “Missed me?”

Dream laughs. “You always were my favorite traitor.”

Wilbur’s smile gains a vicious edge. “I can’t say the same, I’m afraid. Can we talk?”

“Sure, sure.” Dream waves a hand. “Follow me.”

Tense silence settles over them as Dream leads them further away from L’Manberg. Leaves crunch beneath their feet as they walk into the forest. The route feels oddly familiar, and Wilbur keeps glancing around. Something about this place-

(Technoblade, rolling his eyes, but leading the way to-)

(Wilbur at the back of the group, watching. Always watching-)

They arrive at the bank of a river, and Wilbur stops. “This is far enough.”

Dream shrugs, then leans against a tree. “Well, what did you want to ask me?”

“I want to take it back.” Wilbur says. He finds himself gripping his arm, nails biting through the coat, and forces himself to let go.

Dream, to his credit, doesn’t bother to ask what Wilbur means. “You want to- what- undo the resurrection?”

“Yes.”

He lets out a chuckle. “Wellll-” he says, drawing out the word- “there  _ could _ be a way.”

Wilbur grits his teeth. “And?”

Dream lets out a regretful sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. He eyes Wilbur like he’s about to do something stupid, and he can feel himself start to bristle. “Not in your case, though.”

Wilbur lunges, gripping Dream’s cloak. “And  _ why the fuck not _ ?” He’s shaking. “ _ Tell me! _ ” 

Dream doesn’t even bother to push Wilbur away. “Tell me, Wilbur, why did you come back as a ghost?”

“What the  _ fuck _ does that have to do with anything?!”

Dream sighs, as if he’s speaking to a petulant child. “You came back as a ghost because you needed closure. That’s the whole  _ point _ . Phil said his goodbyes- he’s not coming back.”

“So what, Dream? I’m not asking about Phil’s ghost- I’m asking if I can return his life!”

Dream leans forwards. “The ritual needs a  _ target _ , Wilbur,” he says, almost gentle. “You can’t give life to something that doesn’t exist.”

“You’re  _ lying! _ ” Wilbur roars, and it takes everything in him not to draw Phil’s sword and run it through the bastard. 

“Why would I lie about this?”

“Because- because-” Wilbur’s grasping at straws. “You want to use me- hold the truth out of my reach and make me  _ beg _ for it- don’t lie to me, not about this! I’ll do whatever you want, just- tell me there’s a way to bring him back- tell me-” 

Wilbur holds onto Dream’s cloak like a lifeline, bowing his head. “Please. Tell me I can fix this.”

Dream stares at him for a moment, considering. They both know what will happen if Dream says ‘yes’, but Wilbur doesn’t give a damn. 

“You can’t, Wilbur.”

It’s those words- those  _ damning words _ \- that break him. He lets go of Dream’s cloak, falling to his knees at Dream’s feet.

“Why?” Wilbur’s voice breaks. “Why would he-”

“Because he wanted to, Wilbur.”

“ _ I DIDN’T ASK HIM TO! _ ” Wilbur grips his hair, scalp aching with the force of it. “ _ I NEVER WANTED THIS! _ ”

He can feel Dream hovering. “You’re his son, Wilbur. You never had to ask.”

Wilbur lets out a wail. Distantly, he can hear the crunch of leaves as Dream gives him some privacy. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about anything, anymore. 

“Phil,” he sobs. “Why- why would-”

(Why did Phil choose to care  _ now _ ?)

\--

Wilbur remains kneeling on the ground until the sky is painted orange, and shadows stretch across the ground. His throat feels raw, his eyes swollen. His knees ache. 

What now?

He doesn’t want to move. He doesn’t want to do anything, other than fade back into the void. He closes his eyes for a moment, savoring the darkness, pretending, for just a moment, that he’s back where he’s supposed to be.

He wishes that Phil was here. He wishes that he could grab his father, and  _ shake _ him, and ask him  _ why _ . He wishes- He-

(He misses his dad.)

He feels hollow. He feels like- like he’d been stabbed all over again, left behind to bleed to death. 

There’s a leaf on his left knee, half green, half yellow. He stares at it, not registering as the world gets darker. 

The low groan of a zombie echoes through the trees, and Wilbur blinks. He couldn’t- he couldn’t stay out here. He couldn’t risk Phil’s life like that. 

He picks himself off of the ground, standing on numb feet. He picks a direction and begins to walk. The residual feelings of deja vu have come back in full force. The river, the forest-

He comes to a stop next to a nondescript dirt wall. Slowly, Wilbur reaches out with shaking hands, clawing at the loose dirt. Slowly, he uncovers the entrance to Pogtopia. 

Wilbur steps into the small entryway, looking over the old chests. They're covered in a thin layer of dust and grime, one of them left open. The bed is half-made, red comforter spilling over the side and onto the floor. 

(There’s blood on the floorboards, pooling further away in a corner-)

Wilbur wrenches his gaze away, and descends into the ravine. Each step of his boots against the stone echoes down, clicking- clicking- clicking. He traces his fingers over the cracks in the stone as he descends. 

(He spots a few buttons gleaming on the walls, and wants to laugh himself sick.)

He stops near the furnaces at the base of the ravine. It’s cold, and dark. A few lanterns are still lit, casting strange shadows across the ground. He remembers leaving this place before the rebellion, convinced he’d never return. 

Whatever cruel being was in charge of his fate must be laughing with the irony of it all.

(Fate is a wheel, and he’s trapped in the same damned cycle until it grinds him to dust.)

He sits on the floor, digging through his pockets for a spare piece of coal. He feeds it into the furnace, curling up next to it. 

He’s so cold.

There’s spare clothes here, probably. He should change- he’s still covered in Phil’s blood. It’s all dry now, making his shirt stiff and uncomfortable. There’s some crusted around his fingernails. He can’t bring himself to care. 

He pulls his coat tighter around himself, and falls asleep on the stone floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> (Wilbur just spedran 3 out of 5 stages of grief and landed solidly in depression-)
> 
> Also, I CALLED IT (Jan. 6 spoilers)- as soon as Wilbur said he wanted to stream on the SMP again/start writing for it again, I knew he would come back! I just wasn't sure if it would only be his memories returning or a full resurrection (which is how this fic sorta started, so-)
> 
> Question time: who did you side with, yesterday? Techno? Tommy? Someone else altogether?


	3. the angel of death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The button seems to taunt him. Wilbur can’t help but stare, breath shaky with adrenaline, fingers twitching. 
> 
> “It’s over,” he breathes. He almost can’t believe it- he’s been agonizing over this moment for so long, and now it’s finally here. “It’s finally over.”
> 
> (No matter what Wilbur does, it seems like he'll always be haunted by the past.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, let me just say, y'all have been SO nice, and it really encourages me to see that so many of you have enjoyed what I've written so far! Thank you for stopping by, because it really means so much to me. I hope you enjoy! <3

The button seems to taunt him. Wilbur can’t help but stare, breath shaky with adrenaline, fingers twitching. 

“It’s over,” he breathes. He almost can’t believe it- he’s been  _ agonizing _ over this moment for so long, and now it’s finally here. “It’s finally over.”

He steps forwards, hand raised to end it all-

“What are you doing.”

Wilbur freezes. “Phil?” He whirls around. The walls are dark and cracked. The tunnel leading to the surface is empty. “Phil! Where are you?”

“I’m right here, Wilbur.” The voice comes from behind him, and Wilbur turns around again. 

The button is gone, sunlight and smoke pouring through the hole in the wall. Screams echo across the crater. Phil stands before him, wings outstretched. He looks almost angelic, sunlight illuminating his wings and forming a halo behind his head.

“Phil-” Wilbur chokes out. “Phil, you should’ve let me die. You-”

Wilbur fumbles for his sword. He remembers how this is supposed to go. He tosses it at Phil’s feet. “Kill me. Kill me,  _ please- _ do it, and let me stay dead this time.”

Phil picks up the sword, glancing between it and his wayward son. 

“Please, Phil. Philza. Kill me.”

Phil’s mouth hardens into a line, and he lunges, wings flaring, and Wilbur closes his eyes. Feathers embrace him, and  _ oh _ \- 

This was always how it was meant to end. Philza, the angel of death, guiding the son he raised back into oblivion. It’s warm, and Wilbur can’t help but relax into it.  _ Finally _ .

His hands wrap around something cold, and he opens his eyes. Phil looks him in the eyes as he- as he-

Phil embraces him, pushing the diamond sword in Wilbur’s hands further into his own chest. 

His father is smiling, holding him close. Blood trickles from the corner of Phil’s mouth. Wilbur struggles to pull away, to staunch the blood- ( _ nonono, this isn’t right-) _

Philza leans in. “ _ This is my choice, Wilbur _ .”

* * *

Wilbur bolts upright. His hands scrabble against stone, even as his eyes dart blindly around the ravine. He- he was-

He was dreaming. 

Wilbur lets out a shaky exhale, bringing his knees to his chest. He can’t shake the image of Phil, smiling softly, impaled on his own sword. 

“Fuck,” he breathes.

He staggers to his feet- he refuses to dwell on it. He needs- he needs to occupy himself. He needs to  _ do _ something, not sit idly in the dark. 

Clothes. Then he can deal with the rest. 

He rummages through the first few chests, not finding much. At the bottom of the third chest, he finds a puddle of heavy, blue fabric. He pulls it out to get a better look, and then drops it as if it burned him. A few moths flutter out of the chest, and he bats them away as their wings brush his face.

Wilbur thought he had gotten rid of his old uniform. Apparently not. The old bitterness rises on the back of his tongue, thick enough that he could choke on it. He swallows it down, ignoring it for now. He moves on.

The next few chests are similarly useless. The fifth one has some bread, which he scarfs down. Other than that, all he finds are lumps of coal, cobblestone, and scraps of paper. It’s clear that someone has been here after the rebellion. 

He returns to his old uniform, scowling at it. It’s not as filthy as he expected- a little dusty, sure, and he can spot small holes where moths have eaten away at the coat- but remarkably well kept. His fingers brush against the collar, feeling the frayed edges. 

Wilbur sighs, bundling up the fabric. He just won’t wear the overcoat- at least until his current clothes have been washed and dried. 

Putting on the uniform leaves him feeling distinctly wrong-footed. It hangs off of his shoulders differently than it used to. The sash ends up being cinched in a bit tighter. He feels suffocated by the man he once was. 

(He feels suffocated knowing that this life is not his own.)

He’s gathering his old clothes when he hears footsteps. He fumbles to remember where he put Phil’s sword, before grabbing it, sheath and all, off of the floor.

“Wil-bur! Wilbur, are you there?” 

It’s Tommy, and Wilbur lets out a breath. “I’m down here,” he calls. 

The footsteps pause, then rush down the stairs. There’s an awkward stutter when Tommy nearly misses a step, but he makes it down in one piece.

Tommy glances over, then does a double-take at his new attire. “Wha- What the fuck are you wearing?”

Wilbur shrugs. “I needed to wash the blood off.” 

Tommy glances at the pile next to him, spots the blood, and turns an interesting shade of green. “Yeah, okay.”

Wilbur frowns. Tommy’s acting oddly quiet. Actually, now that he thinks about it-

“Why are you here, Tommy?”

“Looking for you, you  _ arse _ . Do y’know how worried Technoblade was when we came back? He was half convinced you were gonna go off yourself again!”

Wilbur grits his teeth, sweeping up his old clothes. “Well, now you’ve found me,” he bites out, sweeping past Tommy.

“Wait- fuck- Wilbur!”

Wilbur hears Tommy scramble to follow, and he quickens his pace out of spite. He climbs up to the entrance, and claws away the dirt. 

“Wilbur, you  _ bitch _ , wait up!”

He can hear Tommy behind him, and he lets out an aggravated sigh. He never knows when to  _ stop _ , does he? He turns around, and waits for Tommy to catch up. His hands clench in brown fabric.

Tommy stumbles into the light, panic written all over his face. “Wil-” he freezes, staring at Wilbur. “Oh.”

“ _ What, _ Tommy?” Wilbur snaps. The last thing he wants right now is to see anyone, and he can go right back to that as soon as Tommy  _ leaves him alone _ . 

“What do you mean,  _ ‘what’ _ ?” Tommy scowls, crossing his arms. “I said I was looking for you, and then you just run off- kind of a dick move, really- and Techno’s been all over the place, like- we spent all of yesterday  _ freezing _ to death-”

“ _ Tommy. _ ” 

“Okay, okay!” Tommy throws his hands up in frustration, but sobers quickly. He frowns. He shuffles his feet. Looks Wilbur dead in the eye. He opens his mouth, seems to rethink something, and closes it. Wilbur raises an eyebrow, and Tommy flushes red. 

“Come home with me.” he blurts out.

The request is so absurd, Wilbur barks out a laugh. “What?”

Tommy sets his jaw, lifting his chin. “You heard me! Come  _ home _ .”

“I don’t  _ have  _ a home, Tommy.” L’Manberg? He destroyed it with his own two hands. Pogtopia? It was never a home for him. 

(He built a home in a sewer, hollowing out a niche in the stone walls, filling it with things that comforted him- potions, books, and warm fires. He called himself a librarian, and let himself pretend that he had meaning.)

The sewer in L’Manberg was built for a different Wilbur. If he did decide to return, he doubts he’d be welcome.

Tommy strides forwards, jabbing a finger into his brother’s chest. “Oh no you don’t, you prick. Techno’s had a room set up since Phil-” Tommy swallows harshly, but continues on. “Since Phil left. Come home, Wilbur.”

Wilbur blinks, clothes all but forgotten. “Oh,” he says, weakly. 

“Yeah,  _ ‘oh’ _ . Come on, then.”

Wilbur pauses. “At least let me wash my clothes, first.”

* * *

The trek back to Technoblade’s cabin is awkward, the air thick with unspoken words. Tommy leads the way, babbling to himself as Wilbur shuffles behind him. 

Tommy’s changed. He carries himself with a new anger, shoulders stiff and mouth set in a harsh line. His red-and-white shirt is gone, replaced with a pale blue button-down and a furred cloak.  _ If he’s living with Technoblade, it makes sense _ , he muses. The taiga is cold on the brightest days, and unforgiving to anyone who isn’t properly equipped. 

Tommy stalks through the brush, babbling to himself and waving his hands animatedly. As Wilbur watches, Tommy’s cloak gets snagged on a bush. 

“Aw, c’mon, man!” Tommy starts tugging at it, muttering under his breath. “...always the bushes, getting in my way…” He curls his fingers in red fabric and  _ pulls _ , branches snapping under the strain.

Wilbur sighs, stepping closer. “Be patient, Tommy. You won’t get it free like that.”

Tommy glances over, and  _ flinches _ . 

Oh. 

“Oh yeah?” He asks, puffing his chest. Wilbur can see the nervousness in Tommy’s hands- they fidget with his cloak, rubbing the fabric between his fingers. “You do it, then.”

Wilbur doesn’t move. “You’re scared of me.”

“Wha- I’m not scared of you!” Tommy’s not looking him in the eyes.  _ Liar.  _ Wilbur takes a step closer, something bubbling in the back of his throat. It feels like rage.

“I think you are,” Wilbur says. His next step is slow, deliberate. He can feel the way his gait shifts, the way his head tilts just  _ so _ . The anger stirs within him, familiar ice running through his veins. 

Slipping back into his old self feels comfortable, natural, like putting on a well-worn set of clothes. Tommy’s dropped the facade, stumbling back a step. Horror’s written across his face.  _ I did that _ , Wilbur thinks with vicious satisfaction, and something a little like guilt.

“Tommy, are you  _ scared  _ of me?” Tommy’s still not looking at him. “Look at me,” he says, and Tommy’s eyes snap to his face. His eyes meet Wilbur’s, before they flicker away and settle somewhere around his chin. Wilbur steps closer, and Tommy shifts. His cloak pulls at the bush, and he’s forced to stop. Wilbur grins. 

“You  _ are _ ,” he breathes. “Why’d you bother coming all this way, then? Would you be able to sleep at night, knowing I’d be living in the same house?” 

Wilbur takes a step closer, and the point of a netherite sword presses into his neck.

“That’s  _ enough _ .” Tommy’s hand is shaking. He swallows harshly, wetting his lips before he speaks again. “I’m here because Techno asked me to find you. And- and you  _ owe me _ , Wilbur.  _ That’s _ why I’m here.”

Tommy drops the sword. “I’m not gonna be fucking pushed around again, alright? Not by you, not by Techno, and- and certainly not by  _ Dream _ . Now,” Tommy sheaths his sword. “Either help me untangle this, or stay out of the way. Got it?”

Wilbur blinks. It seems Tommy’s grown a backbone. “Got it.”

The rest of the walk to Technoblade’s house is spent in silence.

* * *

Tommy must have sent something ahead, because when they arrive at Techno’s cabin, the man is standing on his porch. Wilbur can barely feel his fingers, his ratty trench coat not doing much against the cold. He shivers. 

Techno waves at them, before turning and walking inside. Tommy picks up the pace, striding towards the cabin. Wilbur hangs behind, and Tommy stops, turning to face him. 

“Well?” he asks. “Come on, then.”

Wilbur eyes the warm glow of the cabin. Tommy meets his eyes, nervous but determined. Wilbur huffs out a sigh. 

“I walked all the way here, didn’t I?” Wilbur asks, brushing past Tommy. “Why would I back out now?”

“‘ _ Why would I, _ ’ he says,” Tommy mutters. Wilbur can hear his footsteps crunching behind him. “It’s not like you’d come back on your own anyways…”

Wilbur forgot how aggravating his younger brother was. He rolls his eyes, pulling the spruce doors open without waiting for Tommy to catch up. 

Techno’s kneeling by one of the furnaces, feeding more coal into the slot at the bottom. When Wilbur walks in, he dusts off his fingers and gets to his feet. “Wilbur,” he greets.

“Technoblade,” Wilbur says. Suddenly, he’s very aware that he came here yesterday to die. And then ran off. Embarrassment bubbles in his chest, before he pushes it down. He’s not a  _ child _ , running away from their minder. 

Techno lets out a sigh, rubbing the back of his head. “Come on in, then. Warm up.”

Wilbur picks his way over to the furnaces, finding a nice spot on the rug and sprawling out. He pulls his numb hands out of his pockets, stretching them out by the fire. Tommy stomps inside, shutting the doors behind him. 

The fire crackles heartily, and Wilbur can hear Tommy finding a place to settle. No one says anything. Everyone seems determined to ignore the elephant in the room, until Tommy speaks up.

“So, uh. Where’d you run off to? Just Pogtopia, or…”

Wilbur glances over at Tommy. “I went looking for Dream.”

The tension  _ spikes _ . Tommy’s knuckles go white from how hard he’s gripping his sword. Technoblade shifts, just enough to step between them. Wilbur turns back to the furnace.

“And why,” Tommy asks, voice shaking, “did you do that?”

Wilbur’s missing something. Even after Dream joined Schlatt’s side, there was never this much hostility. Even after-

(A sandy island, a lonely tent. Tommy, dirty and alone, with dull tools and duller eyes, a netherite axe and  _ put your armor in the hole, Tommy _ -)

Wilbur hisses, pressing a cold hand to his forehead. Pain spikes beneath his eyes. Tommy was exiled, wasn’t he? That’s why he’s out here, instead of in L’Manberg. That’s right. Wilbur rubs at his headache, sighing.

“Dream knows more about the rituals than I do. I wanted to check something.”

Technoblade lets out a heavy sigh. “Next time, just ask me,” he says. “...I looked over his notes. Before he… well.” Techno isn’t meeting his eyes, and it takes him a moment to understand what he means.

Wilbur snaps to attention. “And you didn’t  _ stop him _ ?” Anger makes his breath short. (They let Phil  _ die- _ ) He will not start a fight in Technoblade’s house. He will not start a fight-

Tommy scrubs at his eyes. “We  _ tried _ , alright?” He bursts out. “It was all he could talk about for  _ days _ , he barely ate, he wouldn’t sleep, he- h-he…” Tommy’s mouth quivers, and he looks away.

Techno reaches up, grabbing a golden chain around his neck. His eyes are misty with tears. “It wasn’t supposed to work. I told him that he needed your body to finish the ritual- it’s a miracle you even exist right now. I told him to let it go.” He lets out a shaky breath, bowing his head. “He snuck out anyway. I thought-” Techno shakes his head, letting go of his necklace. 

“You’re here now, Wilbur. That’s what matters.”

Wilbur turns back to the fire, staring until the flames are seared into his vision. The anger drains out of him in a rush, leaving him numb. “A miracle, huh?”

Techno’s hand drops onto his shoulder, squeezes once, and then leaves. “Your bedroom’s on the left,” he says gruffly. “Come on, Tommy.”

“Yeah.”

Wilbur almost misses them leaving, his mind scattered. An angel of death. A guide to the underworld. Rebirth, ashes, miracles. The flames crackle in the furnace. 

Wilbur sits there, quiet, and waits for the fire to die out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, casually throwing out obscure references to Editor Wilbur and SMP earth throughout the story:
> 
> Question for today's update: Who's your favorite content creator on the dream smp? Did you discover them through the smp, or somewhere else?


	4. a feathered mantle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur settles into his life at Techno's cabin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took a while! I'm running out of pre-written chapters, so I wanted to slow down so I could catch up a bit. Hopefully I can go back to uploading twice a week/twice every 10 days (?) I don't really have a schedule for this fic, whoops-

Wilbur wakes up on the floor. It’s cold. He frowns at it, burrowing deeper into whatever blanket is keeping him warm. He just wants to go back to sleep. The sun is shining in his eyes, and the floor is cold. He shifts. The sun is shining in his eyes, the floor is cold, and it presses uncomfortably into his shoulder.

He can hear voices outside, the low murmur of Technoblade and the brighter shouts of Tommy. Wilbur sighs. So much for sleeping in, then. He sits up, and the blanket on his shoulders pools in his lap. Wilbur glances down.

It’s not a blanket.

He reaches out with trembling fingers and traces green fabric, feeling the seams beneath his fingers. He smooths out one fold to reveal a white diamond. Phil’s cloak. Carefully, he gathers it up and holds it to his chest. He breathes in, and it still smells like him- old smoke, cedar, and the mustiness of feathers. 

He bites his lip, shoving down his grief. He  _ refuses _ to start crying again.

(If he starts crying again, he’s afraid he won’t be able to stop.)

He gets to his feet, holding onto Phil’s cloak. Carefully, he shakes it out and drapes it over a chair. Tommy’s still shouting outside. Wilbur takes a moment to gather himself, then opens the door to join them.

Tommy and Techno are placing torches in the snow, bickering. As Wilbur watches, Technoblade pulls a torch out of the ground, moves several feet to the side, and replants it.

“I  _ told  _ you, Tommy, you gotta place them in a grid! Does this look like a grid to you?”

“Creative liberty, bitch!” Tommy laughs, waving his arms. “It’s-” He catches sight of Wilbur, and stops.

Techno turns around. “Ah. Mornin’, Wilbur.”

“Good morning, Technoblade,” Wilbur says, picking his way down the stairs. He jams his fists into the pockets of his coat. It’s cold, colder than he’s dressed for. There’s a moment where the three of them stare at each other, breath fogging in the air.

Tommy squints at him, mouth twitching. Wilbur tilts his head, confused.

“Pff- HA!” Tommy bends over, clutching his stomach as he laughs. “You- You’ve got rug marks on your face!”

Wilbur blinks, glancing at Techno. The corner of his mouth is twitching. Wilbur sighs, running a hand through his hair. Tommy’s bent in half, on the verge of falling over into the snow.

Insufferable child.

Wilbur bends over, scooping up a handful of snow and compressing it in his hands. He ignores the way his fingers burn at the cold. Technoblade, seeing his plan, takes a deliberate step to the side. Tommy’s not paying attention.

Wilbur pelts the snowball at him, grinning with vindictive satisfaction as snow explodes across Tommy’s shirt with a  _ paff _ .

“Oi!” Tommy shrieks, scooping up his own handful of snow. “You’ll pay for that, bitch!”

“Make me!” Wilbur hollers back, already forming another ball with his hands. The snow on the ground is all dry and powdery, and he frowns, trying to form a proper ball. This really isn’t the best stuff to work with- it’s not wet enough to hold its shape, and Wilbur half-expects it to fall apart midair. 

Snow explodes in his face. 

“Oh, you’ll pay for that, you gremlin!” Wilbur lunges, fully intending to shove a handful of snow down Tommy’s shirt. 

Tommy lets out a yell, running away. Wilbur chases him, snowball in hand.

For the first time, his anger is- not gone, exactly, but lessened. He can almost ignore it, churning in the back of his mind. Instead, he’s seized by a fierce joy, which only doubles when he finally manages to catch up to Tommy. 

His brother  _ shrieks _ , patting wildly at his shirt to get the snow out. Wilbur laughs, and laughs, until his sides are sore and he almost forgets the cold burning his skin. He can’t bring himself to regret it.

* * *

Later, Wilbur finds himself regretting everything. He shivers in front of the furnace, a furred cloak over his shoulders and a steaming bowl of soup in his hands. His fingers feel raw, stinging with pain as the blood starts flowing again.

Technoblade is- not  _ hovering _ , exactly, but he lurks in the corner, sharpening his axe. Tommy wandered off to his room a little while ago to find a dry set of clothes. The room is quiet, except for the crackles of the fire and the sharp  _ shhk  _ of the whetstone. Wilbur stares into the fire, leaving his soup untouched.

“What are you doing all the way out here, Technoblade?” Wilbur asks. Techno pauses, setting his axe down with a low thud.

“I was retired,” Techno sighs. “I wanted to be a ‘new man’, and all that.”

Wilbur raises a brow. Judging by the past tense alone, there’s a story he’s missing. “And now?”

“Now?” Wilbur can hear Technoblade walk over. He settles himself on the floor next to Wilbur, stretching his feet out. “I’m not gonna lie to you, Wilbur- I’m not sure. You’ve changed things.” Techno glances over. “Eat something, idiot.”

Wilbur rolls his eyes, but dips his spoon into the broth. “Changed things, how?” Wilbur asks, undeterred. At Techno’s look, he shoves the spoonful of broth into his mouth.

“Right now, you take priority. Whatever grudges I have can wait. After you’re all healed up, and are ready to live on your own, well.” Technoblade turns, staring into the fire. “We’ll see.”

Wilbur eats another spoonful. “I’m fine  _ now _ ,” he says, belligerent.

Technoblade turns to him, red eyes piercing. “No, you’re not.”

Wilbur narrows his eyes. “I’ve gotten this far,” he bites out. “I don’t need you to watch over me! I’ve been just fine on my own.”

Techno’s face remains impassive. “If there are aftereffects of the resurrection-”

“If there  _ were _ ,” Wilbur cuts him off, “they’d already be showing. It’s been two days. If I was going to unravel, it would’ve happened yesterday.”

Techno’s eyes seem to bore into his soul. “And how many times have you tried to kill yourself after you’ve come back, Wilbur?” His tone is gentle, but Wilbur recoils as if he’s been slapped.

He grits his teeth, facing the furnace. His cheeks burn with shame. “It won’t happen again. I won’t waste Phil’s life like that.”

“And what about  _ your _ life, Wilbur?”

The room falls silent. Wilbur keeps his gaze trained on the fire, refusing to look at Technoblade. He wets his lips, trying to find the right words. “I…” He cuts himself off. 

“The question’s redundant, anyways,” Wilbur says, running a hand over his face. “I lived. I died. This isn’t my life anymore, Techno.”

“Isn’t it?” Technoblade asks. 

Wilbur’s hands curl tighter around the bowl. He knows it isn’t. The sky is blue, the snow is cold, and this life belongs to Phil. “If you still have his notes about the ritual, I’d appreciate a look,” he says.

“Yeah, I’ll get them.” Technoblade catches his eyes, and Wilbur can read the apology in his face, even though it’s left unspoken. “Your soup’s gonna get cold.” 

Wilbur watches as he climbs upstairs, letting his mind wander. The conversation with Technoblade tore at old wounds and older scars. 

(Wilbur remembers seeing Phil and Techno together, two Titans covered in the blood of their enemies. They stood still, unwavering, as the world lay shattered at their feet. And- there was a moment- when Phil turned to look at Technoblade, Wilbur could see the world in his eyes. He wanted that.

He wasn’t like Techno- he wasn’t a warrior. His hands were better suited to the fine lines of a pen, or the strings of a guitar. So he threw himself into his art, spinning stories and charming people and trying,  _ so hard _ , to be someone Phil would be proud of.

And for all of Phil’s praise, Wilbur never saw that look directed at him.)

“I thought I told you to eat,” Technoblade says, and Wilbur blinks.

“I was thinking.”

“Mm.” Just the tone of Techno’s voice is enough to make Wilbur bristle. “I’ll put these in your room, then.”

Wilbur glances up, but Techno is already walking away. He sighs, shoveling another spoonful of soup into his mouth. It’s cold.

* * *

A few moments later, Wilbur stands outside the room he’s supposed to live in. He pushes the door open, not sure what to expect.

It’s… homely. Warm. Bookshelves line one wall, and a window looks out over the tundra. There’s a large desk, a cozy looking chair, and what Wilbur assumes are Phil’s notes.

Wilbur shuts the door, making his way over to the desk. There are three things- the first is old and weathered, with a leather binding and an eye engraved on the cover. The second is a thin green notebook. The third- Wilbur pauses. 

The third thing is a letter. 

“Wilbur” is written across it in familiar handwriting, and Wilbur’s hands tremble as he picks it up. The seal is unbroken. He doesn’t know if he wants to open it. 

Numbly, he opens the envelope.

_ Dear Wilbur _ , he reads.  _ If you’re reading this, that means I was able to bring you back. _

Wilbur rips his gaze away, opening a drawer in the desk and dropping the letter inside. He can’t do this. Not yet.

(Reading it makes everything all the more real-)

Wilbur turns to the books, instead. The first one, with the inscription of the eye, is familiar. It’s one of the old texts, left behind in the stronghold when the first people left the Overworld. Wilbur pushes that one aside, for now. Translating gives him a headache, anyways.

The second book is unfamiliar, and Wilbur flips it open. Phil’s handwriting covers the pages. Translations, notes, and even small equations have been scribbled on every inch of the paper. Wilbur flips to the middle, and is met with a diagram of a Totem, with a detailed interpretation of the Illagers’ dark magic.

Phil was a  _ genius _ . Wilbur traces the notes, marveling at them. If Wilbur was a novel, then Phil must be an encyclopedia. 

He knew that Phil’s old worlds were works of art, the perfect mixture of science and magic spread across all three dimensions. But, somehow, he didn’t realize what that  _ meant _ . 

Wilbur grabs a spare sheet of paper, in case he needs to write his own notes. The first page starts with a translation from the old text. He begins reading, murmuring the words to himself as he goes.

“In the beginning, there was one. We lived, we died, and the soul remained- eternal, unchanging, and forever untouchable.” Wilbur pauses. 

“Is that the right transcription?” He frowns, fingers brushing over the word ‘one’. “I don’t remember this interpretation.” 

( _ In the beginning, we were alone- _ )

Wilbur scans the rest of the page. There’s a footnote that says  _ translator’s notes on pg. 7 _ , and Wilbur flips to it.

“In the beginning, there was one.  _ Ph'nglui uaa- _ ” Wilbur coughs, unused to the guttural sounds of Zhroian. He skips past the rest of the sentence, continuing on. 

( _ Ph'nglui uaaah ahagl mgepah ehye. _ )

“...The word  _ ehye _ can be interpreted literally as ‘one’, which is how I’ve written it for convenience. I believe you can also read it as ‘single’, or ‘integrity’. Does this refer to the theory that the first peoples invented the respawn system? Or is it a metaphor referring to a larger power? ‘In the beginning, there was a singularity’. I’m not certain, because my knowledge is limited, and I don’t have many resources to tap.” Wilbur frowns at the next sentence, a line scribbled through it.

“If I believed I could… survive the journey, I would… hm. I would find another- stronghold? Yeah, stronghold- to raid, but… Dream guards that knowledge more fiercely… than any dragon.” 

Wilbur sets the notebook down, sighing. It was common knowledge that Dream was overprotective of the stronghold- apparently, not even George was able to see it. His eyes flutter closed, before snapping back open. He’s tired.

What time is it? He glances out the window, half-surprised to see the tundra shrouded in darkness. The snow glitters in the moonlight. On the horizon, he thinks he can see the glow of lanterns. He yawns, rubbing at his eyes. He’ll come back to this tomorrow, then.

Wilbur staggers over to his bed, flopping into it. He doesn’t even bother to blow out the lantern before he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay but this was in my drafts since like the 8th and when Phil mentioned the totem for Wilbur's resurrection on the 10th I literally pointed at the screen like !!!!! I predicted that :O
> 
> (Fun fact: I made the mistake of starting a prequel for this fic. I'm not gonna upload it until I finish this, but, uh. I've started it.)
> 
> Question for today: what's your favorite mc biome?


	5. salted earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur finds a button. It all goes downhill from there.

Wilbur swings the wooden sword, ignoring the splinters in his hands. He needs to get this right. He needs to drill this form, and the next, and the next, until he’s good enough. Until he’s able to defeat Technoblade, until he can join Phil on his expeditions. (He’s tired of being left behind.)

Downward strike, pull back, step forwards, strike. He grits his teeth, focusing on an invisible opponent. Again. Downward strike, pull back, step forwards,  _ strike- _

(A diamond sword, impaling his father’s chest-)

Wilbur drops the sword, gasping. His hands sting. What-

“Wilbur!” He turns, seeing Phil making his way across the garden. “There you are.”

“Hey, Phil.”

“What- your  _ hands, _ Wilbur.”

Wilbur shrugs, ignoring the way shame colors his cheeks. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not  _ nothing, _ ” Phil says, taking Wilbur’s hands in his own. “Look at this!”

Wilbur feels small. “I’m sorry,” he mutters.

“No, Wilbur,” Phil says. Wilbur shrinks in on himself. “You don’t need to apologise to me. Alright, mate?”

“But,” Wilbur says, “you’re upset.” He looks up at Phil’s face, trying to understand. He feels young, as young as he was when he first lived this memory.

“Not at you, Wil. Never at you.”

Wilbur stares at him with bloody hands, and asks, “Even though I blew it all up?”

Phil sighs, placing a hand on Wilbur’s head. “You always knew how to ask the worst questions,” he says, smiling ruefully. “No, I wasn’t upset at you. Your actions, yes, but-” Phil pauses.

“When I arrived, and saw you there, I saw a man who was grieving- I saw you hurting, and lashing out, and choosing to hurt your friends. That’s not the Wil I know.”

“Maybe you didn’t know me, then,” Wilbur bites out. “How can you encourage  _ Technoblade’s _ bloodlust, and turn around and condemn mine? How-” he grits his teeth, looking away. 

“ _ Oh _ ,” Phil breathes, and Wilbur finds himself wrapped in soft green cloth. Phil holds him close. “No, Wilbur. That’s not it.” 

“If you wanted to go to war, I’d be fine with that. If you wanted to raze the whole damn city down, that’s your choice. But, Wilbur,” Phil says, “the moment you decided to hurt your friends- when they still supported you- that’s the moment I couldn’t-” Phil frowned. “I couldn’t let you make that mistake.”

“So you killed me.”

Phil jerks, as if struck, and his arms tighten around Wilbur. He says something, but it’s indistinct. Wilbur lets it go. A hand runs through Wilbur’s hair, and he tucks himself closer into his father’s embrace. It doesn’t matter, anyway. He just wants to stay here, in this moment, finally at peace.

* * *

Wilbur wakes up with tears in his eyes. The world is quiet, and sunlight spills through the window. He tracks a mote of dust as it drifts lazily through the air. The room is cold, and Wilbur shivers under the comforter. 

There’s a change of clothes draped over the back of his chair, and Wilbur sits up, peering at it. There’s a blue button down, and a long stretch of red fabric. He gathers the clothes in his arms. It’s almost a uniform, matching Tommy's and Techno’s clothing. The blue shirt, the red cape, the blue and gold detailing across the fabric. 

He leaves the shirt, but takes the cloak.

It’s too cold out to refuse.

When Wilbur ducks out of the room, the house is empty. There’s a note left pinned to the wall that says ‘ _ out with Tommy- be back later _ ’. Hm.

He could go back to looking over the notes, but he feels numb. Tired. 

(Empty-)

Wilbur tugs at the cloak around his shoulders, trying to get the fur to lay comfortably around his neck. He can already feel the itch from being confined. He’s stuck in a limbo between staying and leaving, and neither option is desirable. 

He glances outside, taking in the unfamiliar snowdrifts. He remembers seeing lights in the darkness, somewhere across the plains. The cloak across his shoulders should keep him shielded from the worst of the cold. The tundra calls to him, and the walls are closing in.

Wilbur finds himself in front of the door. The spruce wood is smooth beneath his fingertips. He grabs the handle, about to step outside, before he pauses. 

He goes back to Technoblade’s note, scribbling his own message on the bottom. Then, he steps out into the cold snow.

* * *

Somewhere between the cabin, the mountains, and the endless plains of half-snowy ground, Wilbur may have gotten lost. Just a little, though- he’s sure he’ll be able to find his way back eventually.

There’s a mountain on his right that looks vaguely familiar, and he starts walking in that direction. If he circles it, he’ll probably find another familiar landmark to guide him back to the cabin. 

The wind cuts across the tundra, chilling him to the bone. He grips his cloak tighter, pulling it closed. He should have looked for gloves before he left. He can barely feel his fingers.

He’s passing by a small cliff on the side of the mountain, when something catches his eye. He glances over, trying to see what caught his attention. Nothing’s moving, so what…?

And then he sees it.

There’s a small stone button tucked away to one side. 

Wilbur tilts his head, and sunlight gleams off of the polished surface, illuminating it. He tilts his head another way, and the sunlight no longer reflects in his direction. The button’s nearly invisible against the grey stone. Snow crunches against his boots as he walks closer. 

Now, why would a button be sitting out in the middle of nowhere?

The safe thing, he knows, would be to walk back, and pretend that he didn’t find it. This could belong to anyone. It could be a trap. He’s standing in front of it, hand outstretched. A voice that sounds a little like Phil tells him-  _ go home. This can’t be safe _ .

(When has Wilbur cared about safety?)

He reaches out, and presses the button. 

_ (It was never meant to be.) _

The cliff cracks open, a massive stone door sinking into the earth, and Wilbur lets out a disbelieving laugh. Sunlight spills into the hidden room, gleaming off of rows of black, charred skulls. There are rows of chests lining the walls, and an empty armor stand in the back of the room.

Wilbur steps inside, the excitement of a new discovery thrumming through his body. He counts the wither skulls as he goes.  _ Four, eight, twelve… _

When he gets to thirty-two, he pauses in the middle of the room. He spins around, taking it all in. This- this is.

This is  _ glorious. _

Right here, in this small cave, is enough firepower to completely decimate his nation. There wouldn’t even be a crater left. 

This is undoubtedly Technoblade’s work. Very few people have the skill to kill this many wither skeletons, and even fewer have the patience for it. 

This isn’t for war, no.

This is for  _ annihilation _ . 

Wilbur stands there, enshrouded in a legacy of destruction, and laughs himself hoarse.

* * *

Later, when Wilbur comes back to himself, he strides out of the hidden room with a new purpose. He shuts the massive stone door, and turns away from the mountain. He’s not going back to the cabin just yet. 

He walks until the patches of snow are less and less frequent, until the weather is warmer and more trees dot the horizon. The cloak over his shoulders is making him overheat in the warmer weather, but he barely feels it over the ice in his heart.

(He’s so cold-)

He keeps walking, entering the forest and ignoring the way branches pull at him. He’s getting closer. 

Wilbur’s been walking for nearly two hours, now, and his feet hurt. He closes his eyes, remembering a room of black skulls, the taste of ashes on his tongue. He remembers the smell of gunpowder, the feeling of a button beneath his fingertips.

All he can feel is rage.

He can feel the tension building in his shoulders, his jaw, his throat. His teeth ache. 

Beneath the anger, his heart pounds with elation.  _ He was waiting for something like this. _

“I was waiting for this,” he says, tasting the words on his tongue. They feel right. “I was  _ waiting _ ,” he says again. 

Because that’s what it was! He was lost, without a purpose, without a  _ reason _ . And now… Wilbur laughs.

Now, he thinks of destruction, and lets the thought carry him. 

“I should have known that Technoblade would carry on my legacy,” he says. “He even hinted at it, didn’t he? He had  _ plans _ .”

A branch cracks sharply beneath his foot. Wilbur grins. It feels good to slip back into old patterns. Old routines. 

(Old mistakes-)

Wilbur stops. 

_ Does _ he even want to blow it all up again? He could just- walk away. No one knows he’s back. He takes the idea, turning it over in his head. He’ll run away, and build his own home. He’ll be alone, with nothing but himself, his thoughts, and-

(And his guilt.)

Grief slams into his chest like an anvil, leaving him breathless for a moment. That’s right. 

_ He killed Phil _ . 

His mind flinches away from the memory, shoving the imprints of blonde hair and black feathers far, far away. Even something as simple as a  _ name _ hurts. He stamps down the memories, but the more he tries, the more he  _ remembers _ -

(He had a dimple when he smiled-)

“Enough!” Wilbur shouts, clutching his head. He feels raw, as if his entire body is an aching wound, bared to the world. “Enough.”

He takes a deep breath. His hands shake. Wilbur carefully doesn’t think of anything but the trees around him.

The leaves are turning orange. There’s a songbird chirping away somewhere to his right. He can’t quite tell what it is, but it sounds familiar. A soft breeze caresses his face.

He takes another breath. Slowly, carefully, he takes everything- the grief, the guilt, the anger- and buries it deep. The numbness comes back, almost comforting in its stillness.

He closes his eyes, returning to his original question.  _ Do you even want to blow it up? _

Wilbur is calm.

“Yes,” he breathes. “I think I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I WAS WAITING FOR THIS MOMENT FOR SO LONG AAAAAAAA-
> 
> This has been in my drafts for DAYS, but I had to edit it/get my beta to look over it/etc, so sorry about that! 
> 
> (Somewhere between this chapter and the next one, actual Plot snuck in, oh no-)


	6. the ties that bind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur's going to destroy L'Manberg. It's time for him to start setting things in motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT NOTE: the tags for this fic have been updated! Wilbur hurts himself this chapter, even though it's more in the sense of 'I need blood for something' vs. 'I want to hurt myself'. I also describe the injury- nothing too graphic, but please take care if you don't want to read that sort of thing!
> 
> If you want to skip the scene/description, jump from "He draws his sword, glancing over the blade," to "He doesn't have bandages." I'll also put a quick summary in the end notes for anyone that needs it.

Wilbur walks deeper into the forest, growing quieter the closer he gets to his destination. The air is heavy with promise. Every step breaks the silence, a declaration of intent. 

He is walking towards L’Manberg.

(He will see it destroyed.)

Slowly, steadily, he lets his anger trickle back. Ice wedges itself in his heart, clawing its way up his throat and settling over his shoulders.

(Anger is safe. He can be cold, and furious, and bitter, without dragging up things he’d rather not remember.)

As Wilbur walks, he lets himself think. He’s at a disadvantage right now. He has no weapons, no tools, and no allies. It took him months to amass enough explosives last time, and that was  _ with  _ Dream’s help. 

He thinks of wooden stilts in a flooded crater, and scowls. He had seven hundred and thirty-six pieces of TNT, painstakingly gathered and hidden away.  _ Seven hundred and thirty-six _ . He detonated it, the nation was scarred, the people were scattered. The ground became a gaping maw, hungry for blood. Chechkov’s gun had been fired. Wilbur’s part was over.

And then what happened? They rebuilt. They built their homes in the middle of his godforsaken crater just to prove that he wasn’t enough to break their spirit.

Wilbur needs to do a better job, apparently. 

What are his options? Dream, Technoblade, Tommy. He mulls over those names, letting them echo with every footstep. Dream, Technoblade, Tommy.

Dream might be willing to help- they had  _ history _ , and Dream hates L’Manberg. Wilbur could ask him for help making the explosives again. 

A thought occurs to him, and he frowns. Asking Dream for help might make things difficult. Tommy is still recovering from whatever the fuck Dream did to him in exile. Technoblade is… siding with Tommy, at least for now. He doesn’t think they’d be willing to cooperate with Dream. Tommy  _ definitely _ wouldn't. He sighs, resolving to revisit that idea as a last resort.

Technoblade’s an easy answer. Wilbur saw his room, the preparations for war strewn about. It would be easy to capitalize on that power and strike while L’Manberg’s weak. He’s half-certain that Technoblade will go after L’Manberg regardless of Wilbur’s decision. The question is- would Technoblade support  _ Wilbur _ ?

Wilbur’s not sure, and that’s a problem. It’s always hard to get a read on the man. For all that Techno preaches violence, and bloodshed, and anarchy, he seems to operate by a set of rules privy to no one but himself. 

Wilbur pauses beneath a tree, glancing around. He’s getting close. 

(Dream, Technoblade, Tommy.)

Tommy is- was- is his right-hand man. Someone who’d stand by him regardless of his beliefs- Wilbur could use that. He  _ had _ used that, in the past. If he dropped the right hints, if he asked for the right favors, he’d be able to get some power back. 

He can’t tell Tommy- that boy wears his heart on his sleeve. He is someone who clings to things until they’re ripped away, and a piece of Tommy goes with them. Tommy might  _ say _ he wants nothing to do with L’Manberg, but until Wilbur sees proof, he knows it’s a lie. 

(Until Tommy proves himself to Wilbur-)

Wilbur stops, frowning. He- he doesn’t  _ really  _ have anyone willing to stand by him, does he? Not anymore. 

(Dream, Technoblade, Tommy.)

(Chaos, a weapon, a pawn-)

He grits his teeth, letting the anger soothe him. It’s fine. He’s managed- he’s always managed on his own. Ahead of him, light spills through the trees, reflecting off of warm spruce and colored flags.

_ My biggest problem _ , Wilbur thinks,  _ is that I’m starting with a blank slate _ . No allies, no enemies, no power to his name. He has a series of paths laid before him, stretching out into the future. Some of them end favorably- others less so. If he wants L’Manberg gone in the next month, he needs to start spinning his threads.

(Dream. Technoblade. Tommy.)

He stares out at his symphony.

(And now, -)

He stops at the edge of the tree line, thinking about the best way to do this. The first thing to go is the cloak, hidden carefully in the base of a tree. He fidgets with his coat, pulling at the lapels and smoothing it flat. 

Wilbur frowns at his shirt- white, spotless, and not what he needs. He misses the blood, because at least that’d be  _ useful _ . He doesn’t look the part of a vengeful ghost anymore.

He draws his sword, glancing over the blade. Well. There’s a simple answer to his problem. 

He slices the blade across his forearm, hissing at the pain. Blood wells up, beading at the cut, and Wilbur presses it to his shirt, dyeing it crimson. He holds it there for a few moments, letting the blood soak into the cloth. 

He pulls his arm away, staring at the stain, before wiping the rest of the blood off onto his shirt. The cotton pulls at the cut, and he winces. That wasn’t his smartest idea- it irritates the cut and sends a fresh line of blood trickling down his arm.

Wilbur presses his arm back against his shirt, frowning at the uncomfortable wetness of fresh blood. He leaves it there for another few moments, waiting for the bleeding to slow. Carefully, he peels his arm off of his now-bloody shirt, assessing the damage. It’s a clean cut, and most of the bleeding has stopped- it won’t even scar. He digs into the pockets of his coat.

He doesn’t have bandages. He scowls, bleeding arm held out awkwardly as he tries to see what he brought with him. No bandages, no healing pots, not even a golden apple- he really didn’t prepare for this, did he?

For all that this was a spur-of-the-moment decision, he could’ve gone back to the cabin to get supplies. Wilbur clicks his tongue in disapproval, sheathing Phil’s sword. Carefully, he rolls down the sleeve of his coat, letting it cover his bloody arm. He’ll have to remember not to use it as much, not until he can clean and bandage it. 

Or, he muses, he could just nick a healing potion from the cabin when he gets back.

Wilbur glances down once more, judging the stain and arranging his coat to frame the blood just  _ so _ . He closes his eyes, letting himself imagine Phil’s sword buried in his chest, and then he opens them again with a sigh. He steps forwards, about to leave the forest-

Someone’s on the path in front of him. He throws himself behind a tree, peeking out to see if they noticed his movement. Orange hair catches the light, and suddenly it’s hard to breathe.   
  


It’s Fundy.

His son.

Wilbur crouches behind the tree, watching Fundy as he strides down the path, ears pinned and shoulders back. There’s a little bit of Tommy in the way he moves, and Wilbur swallows.

(Cherry-red lips tilt in a smile, long orange hair spilling over a blue dress- Sally, kneeling on the ground, helping Fundy stand on shaky legs. Wilbur shoots her a grin, even as he reaches out towards his daughter.

“You can do it, sweetheart,” Wilbur breathes, holding out his arms. “Come on, Fundy, walk to daddy-”)

_ God _ , Fundy looks so much like his mother. Wilbur lets out a shaky sigh, pressing his forehead into the bark of the tree. Fundy keeps walking down the path, footsteps growing fainter as he gets further away. He missed his son.

(His traitor son-)

Wilbur grits his teeth, shaking himself back into the present. The paths are empty- he can sneak in.

He darts out of the forest, walking briskly. The air prickles at his skin, and he keeps glancing around. He’s so goddamn exposed, stuck in the open without anywhere to hide. He sticks to the sides of buildings, lurking in the familiar-unfamiliar shadows. 

He ducks behind another building, glancing around. Where the  _ fuck _ is Tubbo?

“You can’t keep  _ doing _ this to yourself!” someone shouts, and Wilbur flinches. He wedges himself between two buildings, ducking behind someone’s plants. 

That was Fundy’s voice. Wilbur leans forward, his need to listen warring with his need to stay hidden.

“Fundy, I…” That’s Tubbo’s voice. 

“Come on, Tubbo. Please.”

“I can’t, I need- I need to finish planning for the- I need to finish planning.” Wilbur brushes aside a rose, settling in his corner. 

“Tubbo, you need to  _ sleep _ .”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you  _ can _ . Tubbo-”

“ _ No _ , Fundy. It’s the middle of the day, and we  _ both  _ have work to do.”

“You can come back to it-”

“I’m planning my best friend’s fucking  _ funeral _ ,” Tubbo snarls. “I sent him off to  _ die!  _ I wasn’t- I  _ let him go _ , Fundy, and I’m not gonna get him back. Let me- let me have this.”

“Tubbo, you’re hurting yourself.”

There’s a long pause, and Wilbur barely breathes, listening intently. “...I have to finish the invitations.”

“Tubbo-”

“No.”

“You’re not the only one who misses him,” Fundy says, words tumbling over themselves. “And we need you  _ here _ , right now-”

“That’s  _ enough _ , Fundy!” 

There’s a moment of silence. Wilbur can hear, faintly, the echo of ragged breathing. 

“Yes, sir,” Fundy says, clipped. “I’ll be back in two hours to check in. Goodbye.”

Footsteps click against polished wood, a sharp tap-tap-tap as Fundy strides away. A door slams shut. Wilbur crouches behind a rosebush, waiting for the town to quiet. He counts to ten, listening for movement.

Silence. 

He steps out into the light, crossing the town as quickly as he dares. The streets look empty- for now- but there’s no telling when someone will pass by.

Wilbur ducks into the entrance of Tubbo’s house, not bothering to knock as he swings the door open.

“Fundy, I  _ told you _ -” Tubbo turns around, and freezes.

Wilbur summons his most wolfish smile. “Hello, Tubbo. Missed me?” The door slams shut behind him.

“I- but-” Tubbo shifts, stepping back. His gaze flickers from Wilbur’s face, to his bloodstained shirt, back to his face. “ _ What are you? _ ”

“Does it matter?” Wilbur asks, amused.

Tubbo draws his sword.

“You can put that away,” Wilbur lies. Adrenaline claws at the back of his throat. “You won’t be able to kill what’s already dead.”

“ _ What. Are. You. _ ”

“A hallucination, a ghost, a fragment of memory- you could even call me a fragment of your subconscious, if that makes you feel better.”

Tubbo lowers his sword, eyes wild. “I really have gone mad, haven’t I?” he breathes. “Why did it have to be  _ you _ ?”

Wilbur barks out a laugh. “Would you rather I look like Schlatt?”

Tubbo flinches. He takes a breath, closing his eyes, before opening them again. He sheathes his sword and turns to his desk, sitting down. He doesn’t look up at Wilbur once.

Wilbur watches as Tubbo starts writing, the scratching of his pen the only noise in the room. 

Is he… ignoring him? Wilbur can feel some of the tension leave his shoulders in surprise. He steps forwards, and Tubbo glances up, before returning to his papers. 

“When you die,” Wilbur says, “how will you be remembered?”

Tubbo’s lips press into a line, and his pen drags across the paper. He doesn’t acknowledge Wilbur at all.

“Poor Tubbo, always trying to be on the right side. A spy, a follower, and now a leader.” Tubbo keeps writing. “A coward,” Wilbur presses, “who only knows how to watch as everything crumbles down around them. How long did it take you to cave to Dream? A day? A week?”

Tubbo drops his pen. “That’s  _ enough _ ,” he hisses. “You’re not real. I don’t need to listen to you.”

“The truth hurts, I know. It always hurts,” Wilbur breathes. “But that’s why you need to  _ listen _ .”

Tubbo keeps his eyes firmly on the paper, but he doesn’t pick up his pen.

“What do you want, Tubbo?”

Tubbo doesn’t speak, but his hands clench into fists.

“You said it yourself- I’m not even real. Who am I going to tell?”

Tubbo closes his eyes. “I want to get out,” he says, soft. Like a confession. Wilbur grins. “I never wanted to be President, but I can’t leave, and I’m  _ stuck _ . I want- I can’t be here anymore. It’s going to kill me.”

Wilbur steps even closer, and Tubbo jerks to face him.

“Well,” Wilbur says, “there’s always a way out.”

“ _ No _ ,” Tubbo says, vehement. “I  _ refuse _ to follow in your footsteps.”

“I just said that there’s always a way out,” Wilbur says, waving a hand. “ _ You’re  _ the one who thought about following Wilbur.”

_ The third person’s a nice touch _ , he thinks. It adds just enough disconnect to reality for Tubbo to let his guard down. He’s not ‘Wilbur’ to Tubbo, he’s a  _ vision _ of Wilbur. 

(following  _ Wilbur _ , he says, as if he could be someone else-)

Tubbo looks up and meets his eyes for the first time. “I can’t just leave- I have a responsibility to these people.” He glances away, a bitter smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Not like you’d understand,” he mutters.

Wilbur bites down on the instinctive response- L’Manberg  _ turned on him _ , they cast him out and deemed him a villain- what  _ responsibility _ did he have to those who  _ abandoned him _ ? He clenches his fists until his pams sting from the bite of his nails. 

Tubbo doesn’t notice his lapse, or doesn’t care enough to say anything. He picks up the pen, staring at it as if he can figure out why it works.

( _ Responsibility- _ what a joke.)

“Why did Wilbur make me President?” Tubbo muses. “It’s certainly not because he thought I was capable.”

Tubbo takes a shaky breath, setting down his pen and pressing both hands flat upon the desk.

“...you’re right about me being a coward. I’m so goddamn afraid, all the time, of becoming something I hate. I look in the mirror and I don’t recognize myself. I make the best choices I can, even though I’m hated for it. I’m  _ terrified _ , Wilbur, but-” Tubbo looks up. “I’m trying. I’m doing what I can, even though it scares me, even though I’ve made the worst  _ fucking mistake of my life- _ ”

Tubbo swallows, blinking furiously. “I’m trying, Wilbur. Isn’t that enough?”

Wilbur leans forward, catching Tubbo’s eyes. “No, Tubbo,” he says, gently. “It’s not.”

And with that, he turns and leaves, ignoring the shuddering gasps behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Wilbur cuts his forearm to draw blood- he smears it across his shirt to mimic his original stab wound. That's pretty much it
> 
> Sorry about the late update! It's so weird- when I'm waiting for a fic to update, it feels like it takes months, but when I'm writing said fic, I blink and it's been a week! This chapter is a tiiiny bit longer than the last one, so there's that. Also, I'm already halfway done with chapter 7, so hopefully there won't be any more delays!
> 
> \- Update schedule is being adjusted to once a week on Sundays :) -


	7. shattering the mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur comes back to the cabin. He can't get any rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI HELLO ANOTHER WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER- Someone strangles another person with the intent to kill- if you want to skip it, stop reading after "the truth hurts, I know... it always hurts." and jump to the next scene break. Again, the scene will be summarized in the end notes! :)

Wilbur stops outside Technoblade’s cabin, tugging at his coat and the heavy furred cloak around his shoulders. He was able to get rid of most of the blood, but the front of his shirt was still stained a faint reddish-brown. If he walked in there with a bloody shirt, he’d never hear the end of it. 

A sharp breeze cuts across the tundra, making him shiver. And to top it all off, his shirt’s still damp from when he washed it out. He tugs the lapels of his coat, buttoning it up with numb fingers. He really needs a pair of gloves. 

He trudges up the stairs, pushing open the door only to get a sword in his face. Technoblade stares at him, eyes wild, before lowering the blade. 

“Good afternoon,” Wilbur says. “Did something… happen?”

“Ran into Quackity in the Nether,” Tommy chirped, rummaging in a chest. “Techno sent him running, but he was half convinced we’d be followed back.” Tommy stands up, a golden apple clutched triumphantly in his hand. 

Techno makes a half-aborted motion to stop Tommy, who takes a large bite. “We have actual food, Tommy.”

Tommy makes the best mocking face he can, mouth still full of apple.

Techno cocks his head. He scents the air, and frowns. “Why do you smell like blood, Wilbur?”

Fuck. 

Tommy, sprawled out by the furnace, glances over. His apple sits forgotten in one hand. 

_Fuck._

Wilbur pastes on a harmless smile, waving a hand as if to brush off the question. “Oh, I just ran into a stray, don’t worry about it.”

“Did it hit you?”

“Just a graze,” Wilbur lies. He carefully doesn’t take his attention away from Techno. He can feel Tommy’s gaze boring into the back of his neck. 

(Tommy’s too quiet- before, Wilbur could talk, and let his words be buried beneath his exuberance, but now all he does is _stare-_ )

Technoblade raises a dubious eyebrow, but lets it go. “There’s a first aid kit in your room,” he says. 

Wilbur summons his most genuine smile. “Thank you, Techno. If you’ll excuse me-“ he brushes past them, ignoring the way their eyes follow him across the room. 

He shuts the door behind him, and lets his eyes flutter closed in relief. That was too close. He can hear murmurs from outside the door, and he presses his ear against it. 

“...a stray?”

“...the middle of the day, I don’t…”

“...I think I know… don’t want it to be true.”

“...you’ll keep an eye…?”

So they don’t believe him. Damn. Wilbur presses his lips into a line and turns away from the door. He’ll just have to play it safer, for now.

The first aid kit is tucked in one of the chests by the window, and Wilbur lays it out on his bed. There’s gauze, bandages, a small vial of alcohol, a regeneration potion, and even a small knife. He rolls up his sleeve, wincing at the cut. The edges are irritated from where it rubbed against his sleeve, and it’s already started to scab over.

(Dried blood leaves trails across his forearm, wrapping around the three gems closer to his wrist. Two grey and dull, and the third-)

Wilbur grabs a cloth and soaks it with water, wiping away the blood.

He opens the bottle of alcohol, soaking a piece of gauze and dabbing it over the wound. It stings, and Wilbur pushes aside the discomfort. Next, he grabs more gauze, dabbing a few drops of the regen potion on it, pressing it to his skin. He grabs a roll of bandages, covering the gauze and winding up his forearm. 

He didn’t use that much of the potion, so his arm should be healed by tomorrow. Tomorrow afternoon, probably. He flexes his wrist, wincing as the movement pulls at the scratch. He’ll have to take it easy if he wants it to heal faster. 

He packs up the remains of the first aid kit, letting the motions soothe him as he thinks. 

Tubbo could be useful. He could be _very_ useful if Wilbur plays his cards right. But, the moment that the President realizes that Wilbur isn’t a fragment of his imagination, he’s- to put it simply- he’s fucked.

The only reason that Tubbo’s even willing to entertain his presence is because he doesn’t think he can retaliate. Wilbur’s no fool- the cornered animals are the most vicious. He’s playing a dangerous game, but if he can get the President’s ear- well.

That changes things.

Wilbur just found a new pawn for his chessboard, and if his plans work out, he might just find it promoted to a queen.

There’s a knock on his door, and Wilbur tugs down his sleeve to cover his bandages. 

“Yes?”

“Techno’s grabbing dinner- it’ll be ready in a few minutes!” Tommy hollers. Wilbur lets out a breath, setting down the med kit. 

“I’ll be there,” he says. 

* * *

Dinner is a _uniquely_ awkward affair. Technoblade managed to drag in a table and some chairs, and they’re all cramped in the center of the room. Wilbur almost feels like he could cut the air with his knife- as easily as he could cut his rabbit.

No one speaks.

“So,” Tommy starts, too-cheerful and piercingly bright, “what did you do today, Wilbur?”

Wilbur, mouth full of rabbit, gives Tommy a _look_ as he swallows it down. “I was exploring the area,” he says, grabbing his glass of water. He takes a sip, before placing it back on the table. “If I’m staying here, I might as well know the way around.”

The best part is, he’s not even lying. He _did_ wander around the tundra for a few hours, and he learned a few interesting facts, so it’s a win-win. Technoblade’s shoulders creep up with tension, and Wilbur feels a flicker of amusement.

“...did you find anything?” Technoblade asks, deceptively casual.

Tommy glances between them, before he sees something in Techno’s gaze and his eyes go wide.

“Snow,” Wilbur says. “Ice. I swung by the farms and looked at them for a bit, and then I spiraled out.” 

“And that’s it?”

“Was there anything else to find?” Wilbur asks, the corner of his mouth twitching at his own joke.

Tommy’s eyes go even wider, and he cuts in hurriedly. “ _Nope,_ nothing at all, haha! It really is boring, living out here, with all the snow, and such- did you know that the Blade took me netherite mining today?”

“ _Did_ he?” Wilbur asks. He glances over at Technoblade, whose eyes are firmly shut in exasperation.

“Yeah,” Techno sighs. He leans back in his chair, letting out a sigh. “I wanted to make a new set, and Tommy didn’t want to stay cooped up in the house. Spent a few hours minin’, ran into Quackity- scared him off-,” the corner of Techno’s mouth curls into a smirk, “-and headed home in case he decided to come back and make a fuss.”

Wilbur hums in acknowledgement, stabbing a wedge of potato. It tastes good, and he takes a moment to wonder where on earth Techno got _rosemary_ , of all things, in the middle of the tundra.

“You should’a seen him!” Tommy says, mouth full. Wilbur winces. Tommy swallows, and keeps going. “All he had to do was lean in a bit and ask _‘do ya really want to try killin’ me again?’_ and he fuckin’ _bolted_!”

A thought occurs to Wilbur, then. “Doesn’t L’Manberg think you’re dead?” _Another_ thought strikes him, and he leans forward. “Did Quackity see you?”

(If Quackity saw Tommy, and brought back the news that he’s alive- _fuck_. Wilbur’s gonna lose his hold on Tubbo.)

Tommy eyes him strangely, but shakes his head. “Nah, Techno gave me invis before we left.”

Wilbur does his best to stay relaxed as a wave of relief rolls through him. “Hm.”

The rest of the dinner is quiet, and Wilbur keeps his head down. He’s too tired to keep the conversation going. If they want to keep the pretense of normality, they’ll have to look somewhere else.

Now that the conversation’s trailed off, they’re stuck in this limbo- somewhat awkward, somewhat uncomfortable, but mostly empty. Tommy and Techno keep shooting each other _looks_ when they think he can’t see them. 

(Wilbur wonders what they think they know.)

The rabbit doesn’t taste like much, anymore, and it sits heavily in his stomach. He takes another sip of water. The only sounds are the clicks of silverware dragging across the plates, and Tommy’s fidgeting.

The seconds tick by. Wilbur keeps eating. 

He finishes his rabbit, setting down his fork. He almost doesn’t want to break the silence. 

“Techno, do you want me to…?” He trails off, gesturing to his empty plate.

“Nah, I’ve got it,” Techno says.

“Alright then,” Wilbur says. He stands up, and the chair scrapes across the floor. “I’ll be heading in for the night.”

“G’night, Wilbur.”

“Goodnight!”

Wilbur acknowledges them with a wave of his hand, stumbling into his room. He’s exhausted. His head barely touches the pillow before he falls asleep.

* * *

Wilbur rolls over, and cold stone presses into his ribs. Something’s wrong, and he sits bolt upright. He’s alone in a dark room, light reflecting off of a glossy mirror. 

Where’s the door? Wilbur stands up, trying to get his bearings.

Blackstone lines the walls. There are no windows. There’s no way out. Where is he?

“What happened to us?” A voice asks, and Wilbur whips around to face the speaker.

A blue overcoat. A red sash. A small frown. That _face_ -

Wilbur- the man- Wilbur?- he sighs, brushing curly hair to the side. “When did we start to give up?”

Wilbur stares into his own face, unable to speak. It’s _him_ \- or, him during the election, down to the cravat and the pointed hat. Curious, Wilbur flicks his gaze down, and- fingerless gloves. Brown coat. Ratty white shirt. Huh. Wilbur looks back up at himself.

“We were all about- courage, in the face of adversity! Freedom! We were revolutionaries! What happened to us?”

He reaches for his sword, only to find an empty sheath dangling at his hip. The other Wilbur doesn’t belong here, and he’s unarmed. 

(There’s no way out-)

The imposter steps closer, and Wilbur stumbles back, unnerved. The walls seem to shift around them, warping oddly in the corner of his gaze.

“And then _you-_ ” the imposter says, cutting, “- _you_ decided to run away, like the coward you are.”

Wilbur bares his teeth in a snarl, fury running through his veins. A _coward? Him?_ No, he was a _villain_ , and a damn good one, at that. He never _ran away_ \- he waged war. He rained down chaos and fire and blood, because that was all the world had given him in return. 

(He was no _coward-_!)

“What was it you said? Oh, yes. ‘ _Running from your problems only works for so long_ ,’ was it? Granted, death is a rather- ah- _permanent_ way to run from everything, but. Here you are.”

The imposter tilts his- its?- Wilbur’s head, smile deceptively cheerful. 

“Are you going to kill yourself again?” It grins wider, eyes crinkling with mirth. “ _Coward_ ,” he sing-songs.

Wilbur _lunges_ , grabbing the fake by their- its- his shoulders and bringing them to the ground. He pins himself to the floor, panting harshly. He can’t seem to breathe with how goddamn angry he is. 

“Shut up,” he growls.

“ _The truth hurts, I know_ ,” the imposter mocks. “ _It always hurts_.”

The room swirls around them, fracturing and reforming, and Wilbur wraps his hands around the imposter’s throat. Why can’t it just _shut up_? The tricorn hat, once on the imposter’s head, has slipped off, laying on the floor. He can feel the cravat of his old uniform press into his hands. 

(He wants them _gone,_ he wants to silence its lying tongue, shut up, shut _up-_ )

Wilbur stares down at himself, and _squeezes_. The imposter laughs, and laughs, until Wilbur’s hands grip too tightly for him to breathe, and his laughs trail off into choked-off gasps. Vindictive satisfaction burns through him as he grips his throat tighter.

Wilbur lets out a ragged gasp, pressing down harder. He- he can’t breathe. He’s the one strangling it, so why can’t he-

His nails bite into the cotton of the cravat, and his vision swims from lack of oxygen. He can’t- 

He chokes in another gasp of air, eyes watering. He doesn’t let go. He sits there, staring at the imposter as they slowly stop struggling. He feels his mouth stretch into a grin, even as his head spins. His lungs burn. Where is the air-

He has the pleasure of seeing his own eyes glaze over, before the world goes dark.

* * *

Wilbur wakes up with a ragged gasp, clutching at his own throat. He’s in a bed. The window’s over here, the door’s over there. 

Techno’s cabin. 

Right.

It’s dark out, but Wilbur knows he won’t be able to sleep. Instead, he drags himself out of bed, lighting a lantern and slumping at his desk. He rubs his eyes, letting out a sigh.

He pulls aside Phil’s notes, skimming over the familiar handwriting.

_As far as I’m aware, there is no research that’s been able to quantify a ‘soul’. In most instances, the soul dissipates after death, but there are a few notable exceptions. Wilbur- sorry, Ghostbur- is one of them. When I’ve asked, Ghostbur says that “living is agony” and it’s “as if [he’s] being ripped apart by a thousand needles”. Is this a result of the soul persevering despite the natural order, or is it… because…_

Wilbur yawns. 

_...or is it…_

His eyes flutter closed, and he slumps down onto the desk, fast asleep. He doesn’t dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary- after being confronted with a version of himself ("the imposter"), Wilbur tries to kill him. The more he tries to strangle the imposter, the harder it is for him to breathe. 
> 
> See, I planned this scene out- I really wanted the symbolism that came with Wilbur killing the "good" part of himself, and uh. SOMEHOW I didn't realize that it would be this dark whoops-
> 
> ALSO GUYS SOMEONE MADE THIS AMAZING FANART FOR CHAPTER 6!! I'm still freaking out about it, it's so cool! You can find it here: https://imgur.com/gallery/k0fBsLJ


	8. aching memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After his restless night, Wilbur tries not to dwell on things too much. (It's hard when he keeps seeing the things Phil left behind.)

The morning dawns with a cold light, and Wilbur opens his eyes. He’s slumped over the desk, and wood presses into his cheek. He can’t move. He feels like the entire room is pressing down on his shoulders. He feels like Atlas, only Wilbur’s not able to shoulder that weight.

He takes a breath just to prove that he can, and it sits heavily in his lungs. He can feel the beat of his traitorous heart pounding away in his chest. Wilbur takes another breath, ignoring the way that it shakes.

He’s been trying so hard not to think. He pushes things away, buries them deep, because he can’t bear to be crushed by them. He throws himself into the next thing, constantly moving, because that’s how he copes. But now, in this space between moments, all he can do is breathe.

Wilbur slides his arm across the desk, until he can see the pale sliver of his wrist, the thin lines of blue veins trailing delicately beneath his skin. Beneath the layer of bandages, he can almost see a faint red glow. 

The stolen life pulses faintly with the beat of his heart, and Wilbur closes his eyes. He feels sick.

The desk is cold beneath him, and the floor is solid underneath his feet.

Phil- Philza- is dead. His dad is dead, and it’s his fault. Even though his eyes are closed, his mind summons the impression of warm, red light, and Wilbur chokes on his next breath.

The warmth feels soft, comforting, and he hates it. Wilbur wishes that the life burned instead of soothed, so that he’d remember what the price was.

(He knows that he’ll never forget.)

His eyes prick with tears, and Wilbur takes a breath. The desk is cold. His head is heavy. He wants to rage, and scream, and rip the room apart, even as he wants to curl up into nothingness and disappear.

The room presses down, down, down, and Wilbur stutters out a sigh. Between one breath and the next, he drifts back to sleep.

* * *

“...Wilbur.” There’s a hand on his shoulder. “Wilbur!”

“Mmph,” Wilbur manages. “Five more minutes, Tommy…” He still feels heavy, as if there’s a lead weight dragging him down. He doesn’t want to move.

“Wilbur!” Someone shakes him. “I’ll start screaming- you know I will! Get up!”

Wilbur buries his head in the crook of his elbow.  _ Leave me alone _ , he thinks, but doesn’t say. Words are too much effort right now.

“IT’S TIME TO GET UP, BITCH,” Tommy bellows, and instinct takes over. Wilbur startles so hard he nearly bolts out of his chair.

“What the fuck was that for?!”

“I warned you!” Tommy lets out a piercing laugh, and Wilbur presses his thumbs into the ache forming beneath his eyes.

“What- what time is it?”

“Uhhhh- like seven? Sun rose like twenty minutes ago, get up!” 

“I’m up,” Wilbur grumbles, opening his eyes. It’s too early for this. He rolls out his shoulders, wincing at the soreness. Falling asleep at the table had not been his best idea. 

Tommy grabs Wilbur’s arm and pulls, dragging him out of the room. Wilbur stumbles after him. He feels slow, dull, and he hates it in a distant sort of way. In contrast, Tommy seems livelier than usual, chattering about all sorts of things. The words wash over him, leaving behind a vague impression and little else. It’s oddly comforting, and he closes his eyes. 

“...and then he pushed me into the lava and-”

“What?” Wilbur freezes, frowning. “You got pushed into  _ lava? _ ”

Tommy looks at him, surprised. “Well, y’see- my friend Dream and I- no, he wasn’t my friend. He was just there to  _ watch me- _ Dream and I were out in the Nether, right? And I just rescued Lazar, so Dream thought it would be funny if  _ he  _ rescued  _ me _ , and-”

“ _ Dream _ pushed you?” Wilbur asks, appalled. What the fuck did he miss?

Tommy jolts, as if he’s forgotten who he’s talking to. He waves away the question, but Wilbur can see a hint of panic in his eyes. “Well, yeah,  _ but! _ I had fire res on me, so I drank it midair! Like one of those- fuckin’- 200 iq plays, y’know? Big man shit!”

Wilbur frowns. He… doesn’t remember that. He remembers fleeting imprints, fragments of memory that don’t  _ quite _ line up. He remembers the Nether, sure, but he can’t seem to place Tommy in those pieces. He frowns, prying deeper, and-

(Ghostbur holding a slip of paper close, breath fogging in the cold- the unnerving sensation of a Nether portal, always strong enough that Ghostbur thinks  _ so this is the end- maybe it’ll finally rip me apart this time- _ the highways of cobblestone and dirt and whatever else, cobbled together, and there,  _ Tommy, far too close to the edge, and Ghostbur doesn’t like it but he doesn’t want to remember so he carefully shoves it away-  _ )

Pain spikes beneath his eyes, and Wilbur flinches. The memories slip away, like water through his fingers. Tommy’s still talking. He’s shifting the conversation to something else, as if that’d make Wilbur forget what he heard. 

Things aren’t lining up. Wilbur latches onto this new puzzle, turning it about. Tommy was exiled, he knows that. The details are foggy, but he at least remembers that. His head is starting to ache, and his mind is slow. 

(He’s never had problems with his memory before- but then again, he’s never been resurrected before, either. He’ll have to hope that it’ll get better, once his body readjusts to living again. If it doesn’t-)

“Tommy,” Wilbur says.

“Yeah?” 

“What-” Wilbur swallows, wincing at the way his headache pounds. “What did I miss?”

Tommy goes very still. Something’s wrong with the picture he makes- quiet, small, fragile- but Wilbur’s head throbs again and he stops lingering on it.

Tommy pastes on a crooked smile. “You missed a lot, big man. Let’s see- we rebuilt L’Manberg-” he starts counting points off on his fingers, “-I got exiled, and  _ then _ I decided I didn’t like it too much, so now I’m living with Techno. Uh- I don’t really know what happened when I was, well-  _ away _ \- but you should probably ask Techno about it anyways. He’d know more than I would.”

There’s a lot Tommy isn’t saying. Wilbur can see it in the way he holds himself, the way he refuses to look Wilbur directly in the eyes. His head hurts. Wilbur wants to press- wants to ask what happened in exile, but his head is heavy and his mind is slow.

“...okay,” he says, and lets it go. Tommy gives him a strange look for that, but Wilbur can’t bring himself to care. He’ll puzzle things out later, when he can muster up the energy for it.

Tommy pulls him into the living room, with the same table and chairs crammed together to one side. Technoblade’s setting the table, placing forks down and then turning to rummage through a cupboard. 

As Wilbur watches, Techno grabs a blue mug, freezes, and carefully puts it back. Oh. That’s-  _ oh. _ It’s like being stabbed in the chest all over again- a moment of weightlessness, and then pain crashes down on him, leaving him breathless.  _ Phil, _ his heart keens.  _ Phil, Philza, Phil. _

Wilbur finds himself grabbing his wrist, running his thumb over Phil’s heart. He swallows, ignoring the way his chest aches. He doesn’t- he can’t- Tommy brushes past him, plopping down in a chair and shoveling food on his plate.

Wilbur can’t bring himself to sit down. 

Techno glances over. “C’mon, Wilbur.”

Wilbur sits down. Breakfast is silent.

* * *

After breakfast is over, and all the plates have been cleared away, Wilbur finds himself lost. He supposes he could decode more notes, but the thought of staring at lines of Zhorian makes his head throb. 

He doesn’t want to. He  _ should- _ these are  _ Phil’s _ notes, written specifically so he could bring Wilbur back, and what sort of foolish, ungrateful-

“Here,” Technoblade says, pushing a basket towards Wilbur.

“What?” Wilbur fumbles for a moment, awkwardly hugging it to his chest.

“We’re tendin’ to the farm today.” Techno grabs another basket, hanging it in the crook of his arm.

“...we?” Wilbur asks.

“We.” Technoblade tosses a pair of gloves at him. “Take these, you’ll need ‘em.”

Huh. Wilbur tugs the gloves onto numb fingers, and looks up at Techno. “...Where’d Tommy run off to?”

Technoblade huffs. “He doesn’t like workin’ in the garden, so I’ve sent him on a few errands- I don’t think he’s left yet, if you wanna talk to him.”

Wilbur shrugs in response. It just feels- strange, is all. He didn’t even realize Tommy had left the house, and now the quiet grates across his skin. He doesn’t particularly want to  _ talk  _ to Tommy, but he doesn’t want to stay inside any longer, either. “I’ll meet you outside then?”

“Sure.” Techno shuts the chest with a thud, pulling on his cloak. “I have to tend to Carl, first, so you might as well.”

* * *

Wilbur closes his eyes, taking a breath of cold air. It’s nice out today- the sun shines brightly, and the air is still and clear. He breathes out, opening his eyes to see the plume of fog his breath makes. It’s almost peaceful.

“Look out!” Tommy cries, and the peace is shattered. 

Wilbur turns around to see the mossy green of a creeper. It hisses, and Wilbur reaches for his sword- he left it in the house, why did he leave it in the house- and he scrambles away, breathing heavily. Adrenaline surges through him, and he grits his teeth.

The creeper lets out a long, rattling hiss, an orange glow shining through the cracks in its skin. Wilbur backs up. The creeper advances. 

An arrow flies through the air and hits it solidly in the chest. It rears back, and Wilbur takes the opportunity to flee. Tommy runs past him, brandishing an iron sword, and cuts it down in a single hit. 

“You alright, big man?”

“Fine,” Wilbur says. “Forgot my sword.”

He scowls, letting out an aggravated sigh. He should know better- living with Technoblade is no excuse to be lax. He eyes the corpse, green leaves already drooping and black blood hissing in the snow. The core, nestled deep in its chest, fades from a bright yellow-orange to a faint red and flickers out as he watches.

Tommy sheaths his sword. “Do you want me to go and grab it, or…?”

Wilbur waves him off. “I’ll grab it in a bit,” he says. “Where are you headed?” 

“Gonna stab some rabbits,” he says. Wilbur blinks.

“I-  _ why? _ ”

“For dinner, why else d’ya think? Someone’s gotta put food on the table!” Tommy puffs up, hands on his hips. 

“I’d rather starve,” Wilbur says, deadpan. He glances over at the house- Technoblade should be meeting him out here soon. He catches a flash of a red cloak, and turns back to Tommy.

Tommy’s face morphs into an expression of mock-anger, and he jabs a finger at Wilbur. “Now listen ‘ere, bitch- you’re not gonna get anything else than potatoes ‘round here! D’ya know what happens when you eat too many potatoes? It makes you go weird in the head, it does.  _ Potato madness, _ they call it. Just look at Techno-”

“What about me?” Technoblade rumbles, crossing his arms. Wilbur flinches, hand dropping to his- _he_ _left his sword in the house-_

Tommy  _ shrieks, _ scrambling away. “W-what the  _ fuck,  _ man? How’d you manage to sneak up on us?”

Tommy has a point- there’s nothing around them but snow. There’s no ground cover to hide in, and surely they’d see the bright red of his cloak from miles away.

“Get goin’, Tommy- rabbits won’t catch themselves.” Tommy huffs at him, but lets Techno shoo him away. Technoblade turns to Wilbur. “You left this inside.”

Wilbur takes his (Phil’s) sword, hesitating a moment before buckling it to his belt. “Thank you.”

“Garden’s this way,” Techno says. He stalks off, not waiting for a response. Wilbur glances at his retreating figure, before looking back down at the hissing remains of the creeper next to him. He reaches down, between the cracked plates, ripping out the gunpowder core and dropping it in his pocket.

He hurries after Technoblade, leaving the creeper behind to dissolve in the snow.

* * *

It’s strange to see plants like this growing in the snow. The garden is the one patch of brown earth in sight, dotted with rows of green plants. Technoblade’s already kneeling by a row of… something or other, clearing away dead leaves. Wilbur walks over and crouches down next to him. 

Technoblade uproots a carrot, before tapping off most of the dirt and placing it in his basket.

He presses his hand to the bare ground and blinks in surprise. It’s warm. Small trails of steam drift up from the earth, before dissipating in the air. He curls his fingers into warm dirt, savoring the feeling.

“How’d you manage this, Techno?” he asks. 

Technoblade grunts. “Wasn’t me,” he says. He carefully grabs the stalks of another carrot, before ripping it out of the ground. “I, uh. I contracted Phil- he did it.”

Wilbur bites the inside of his cheek.

“It’s still not finished,” Techno says, eyes distant. “We were-  _ I _ was going to put up a roof, make it a proper greenhouse. It’s horrifically inefficient as it is- all the hot air escapes, an’ I have to use twice as much coal to heat the ground.”

Wilbur wraps his hand around the stalks of a carrot, before pulling at it. It doesn’t want to budge, so he  _ yanks _ , and it comes free with a loose smattering of dirt. Technoblade keeps talking.

“The irrigation for this thing was a nightmare before Phil- before I got some help. If the soil isn’t warm enough, the water freezes, but if it’s  _ too _ warm, it starts messin’ with the growth. See?”

Techno points to a patch of potatoes a few rows down. Wilbur squints at them. Yeah, the leaves look a  _ little _ strange, but they look fine to him. Maybe they’re a bit smaller? He didn’t even realize that potatoes looked like that, so maybe he’s missing something.

“When we get down there, you’ll see it a bit better,” Techno says, arranging the carrots in his basket. “If you look at the base of the leaves, they’ll be yellow, or spotty. Most of ‘em are sick, too.”

Wilbur yanks a carrot out of the ground, shakes most of the dirt off, and places it in his basket. “Sick?”

“Oh, yeah,” Technoblade says. “The heat makes ‘em grow faster, so I was experimentin’ to find the optimal temperature- I went too hot with the potatoes over there, and it messed with their immune system. The sick ones are the ones with spots and missin’ leaves- it’s nothing too awful, but it reduces your harvest by a fair bit.”

“What’s wrong with them?”

“Blight,” Techno says, tugging at another carrot. “It set in… hm, maybe a month ago, and stuck around since. It’s why I started plantin’ carrots- until I can fix the blight problem, I’m gonna need a secondary source of food.”

Wilbur sits back on his heels, glancing around. They’re nearly done with the carrots. His basket is halfway full, and Techno’s is a few carrots shy of overflowing.

“It’s… strange, seeing you like this.”

“Heh?” Technoblade makes a face at him. “I’m in  _ retirement _ , Wilbur, what d’ya think I’d be doin’?”

Wilbur sighs. His breath fogs in the air, but the ground is warm beneath his knees. “Oh, I don’t know. Something more refined, probably- I didn’t take you as the type to get dirty like this.”

“Hm.” Techno settles the last carrot in his basket, settling into a crouch. “...It’s grounding,” he says, after a while. “I’m good at killin’ people, Wilbur. I’m... not the best at this. I have my projects, sure, my books and all, but.” 

He sighs. “I’m denying my  _ nature _ , y’know? I’ll wake up with the itch to kill someone, or I’ll find myself with a sword in my hand, and that stuff lingers. He- uh,  _ Phil- _ “ Techno’s hand drifts up to linger around his neck, “-suggested I try this. It’s easier to ignore the- uh. Everythin’- when you have dirt beneath your hands and a task like this to focus on. It brings you back to yourself, y’know?”

“Is that why you brought me out here?”

Technoblade scoffs. “Nah, I just wanted the free labor.”

Despite himself, Wilbur grins at him. “Ah, of course. My mistake.”

“I’m  _ serious, _ ” Techno says, but he’s smiling. “C’mon, lemme show you how to deal with the potatoes.”

Wilbur takes a breath of cold air, and lets his eyes flutter shut in contentment. Technoblade was right- for the first time, he feels human again. 

(It’s almost enough to make him forget the gunpowder burning a hole in his pocket.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIVE!!! I'm so sorry to leave y'all hanging, but I had to take a week off to deal with irl things, and this chapter fought me every step of the way. I'm back now, though, and I hope to give you guys extra updates to get us somewhat caught up! Expect chapter 9 to go up on Sunday, and then hopefully I can get chapter 10 out before next week :D
> 
> I hope y'all like this chapter! This was extremely difficult to write until I started talking about the garden mechanics, and my science-y brain took over. (We're just not gonna talk about how unrealistic the garden is- please, I just needed them to have a Moment where Wilbur could start to heal-)
> 
> Also, I have a question about tags: I have character tags for Quackity and Niki because I plan to give them speaking roles later on (and, in the case of Quackity, I've already /written out/ future scenes with his character)- so should I leave the tags, even though their characters aren't present yet? Or, should I remove them and add them back on once their characters appear in the story?
> 
> (AND NOW THE MARCH 1st STREAM- HOOOOO BOY-)

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to leave comments/kudos, they fuel me!
> 
> I'd like to give a huge shoutout to my beta reader [Screwyy,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Screwyy/pseuds/Screwyy) who helped me put this together! (If you love manhunt-inspired works, dnf, or epic fantasy, go check out their fic "Justice Well Served". You won't regret it.) 
> 
> Also, feel free to come yell at me on Tumblr (@fungdi) or on Twitter (@DrawsFungdi)! I draw, mostly, but sometimes I'll post sneak peeks of my writing and you'll get chapter updates immediately after I post them!


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